


all that's left are your bones

by truthbealiar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Jon Snow is King of the Six Kingdoms, King!Jon, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:42:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truthbealiar/pseuds/truthbealiar
Summary: A raven flies North.The King of Westeros has need of a Stark once more.- or -A reluctant king must learn to rule.





	1. prologue: we set fire to our homes / walking barefoot in the snow

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnnd we're back with another fic! This time a Canon Divergent fic, exploring a different path for Jon after that finale. Now I'm mostly sticking to canon, save the finale. There will be some elements drawn from the finale, but please keep in mind that I made some pretty significant changes.
> 
> This fic will include both show canon and book canon aspects. The character ages will be closer to their book counterparts. 
> 
> This fic will be looking a Jon Snow that has taken on an unwanted, and unwieldy burden. He is a hardened warrior who is exhausted and _angry_. That characterization is intentional on my part, and will certainly be explored further. The majority of this chapter is from Jon's point of view, and he will see certain characters in a negative light, particularly Tyrion.
> 
> Title & Chapter Titles - Of Monsters and Men
> 
> Recognizable dialogue is from Game of Thrones, 8x06.

The cold had crept in and taken up residence in Jon's bones. His teeth felt sharper in his mouth, and he knew if he opened his eyes, he would see bloody streaks of red dragged across the pure, unadulterated snow. Death, with its horrid stench and icy grip, lingered at the precipice of his vision, hovering just beside him, reaching, ready to grasp Jon, devour him hungrily. His time had already come. He was destined to die in this snow. The cold certainty of it lived in his bones.

With a hoarse gasp that drew air and life back into Jon's hollow lungs, his eyes flew open. He blinked several times, forcing himself to adjust to the morning that just barely peeked in around the heavy curtains, carefully drawn closed. His chest rose and fell rapidly as Jon's mind scrambled to catch up with his body, rejoining the land of the wake and living. He took another deep breath to steady himself, and his right hand came up to rub at his eyes. Propping himself up on his elbows, Jon saw that the fire had died in the hearth, sometime in the night, accounting for the chill. But even with no fire, the South wasn't cold. Not in the way of the North. The chill that still clung to Jon, like the last vestiges of sleep, was a memory of a different sort.

Groaning slightly, Jon forced himself to sit up. He glanced carefully at the bed, but shook his head. When he had first been brought to these chambers, he had refused the bed, opting to sleep on the floor instead. He did not deserve the luxury of a featherbed, not while people still suffered. The floor was good enough for Jon. The floor did not remind him of soft fabric weighing down on him, and even softer touches grazing his skin. The ground was hard, cold, unforgiving. Jon found comfort in returning there each night.

But morning had come, and with the sun, Jon too must rise. Careful to keep his movements quiet, lest he alert anyone stationed outside his door to his state of alertness, Jon began moving about the chambers, reaching for his shirt and breeches and making his way to the stone bowl containing fresh water. It was clean, but not heated. Jon preferred it that way. He was not a man of luxury, it was known. Reaching for the rough bar of soap, Jon washed himself briskly, closing his eyes and splashing the cold water in his face. His heart clenched, the way it always did when he first encountered that icy sensation, before he relaxed, more alert as he managed to shake off the lingering grogginess of his sleep.

Last night had been kinder than most. Jon still struggled to sleep for more than a handful of hours a night. He often spent his nights working, trying to make the futility of time work in his favor. There was much to be done. So much that it seemed like it was impossible to fit it all into even an entire lifetime. And Jon certainly did not have that.

Sleep did not come easily to Jon on most nights, but last night he had been too exhausted to do anything but lie down upon finally arriving in his chambers. He had struggled for a few minutes, before finally succumbing to the heavy waves pulling him into the depths of slumber. He had not dreamt last night. Or he did not remember dreaming, at least. When he did remember his dreams, he dreamed of terrible fire and piercing screams. His dreams were nightmares, and they haunted him through every moment, both waking and sleeping. His ghosts never left his side.

A sharp rap of knuckles against the door echoed throughout Jon's chamber, and he sighed, running his hand through his dark curls. The world was no longer at war, but he still tied his hair back, still a soldier more than anything. He was tired of fighting. He had once shouted those words, but they weighed heavier on his shoulders than they had at the time. He was tired of fighting for every moment, for every breath, for even a scrap of quiet. But it was the postbellum that had taught him that for any sort of peace, there would be those who never ceased fighting.

"Your Grace, there are some matters we must attend to this morning."

Jon closed his eyes, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He heard the door open behind him, though he had given no entrance, and he heard the familiar footsteps of his steward behind him.

"I will help you dress, Your Grace."

"I can do it myself," Jon snapped. Davos simply looked at him with an unreadable expression.

"Of course, Your Grace."

Jon sighed, but he did not apologize. He should, but Davos would dismiss it. Jon hated that. He _loathed_ it, but he could not change it. Steadying himself, he reached for his clothes, and began pulling on the white shirt, and then his simple leather jerkin over it. Jon's sense of dress had not changed, even in the years he had been here. The world had been nearly reduced to ashes, to death. They were in a constant process of rebuilding, and he would not indulge himself in luxuries while mothers wept as they tried to put food in the mouths of their babes. Jon had heard more than one whisper about his clothing, and he had taken to biting his cheek raw to stop from lashing out. The fact that his sartorial choices were the discussion of the kingdom more than the endless repairs that needed to be done was aggravating.

Everything aggravated Jon now. His anger was his constant companion, always humming underneath the surface of his skin. _Burning_ , his mind whispered, though such thoughts were always banished immediately. If only the anger itself was so easy to cast out. It was impossible to escape, like the cold that had taken root in his bones. Jon wondered if this was his destiny - for fire and ice to war forever in his veins, destroying him slowly every day.

He wished for peace. He was tired of fighting.

"There will be a meeting of the Small Council today, Your Grace," Davos said in his steady voice, beginning his daily litany of all that Jon would have to see to today.

 _Not all_ , Jon thought bitterly. The work of a king was never done. Not even when he was certain he was done being king.

 _The South was hot. It was all Jon could think about, standing on the dais of the dragon pit, staring at the collection of lords and ladies that had gathered. Fury and disgust was leveled Jon's way, but he took no notice. He stood, tall and stern, the way he imagined his father -_ no _, his_ uncle _\- must have stood, as he awaited the blade to sever his head from his body, all those years ago. For the barest of moments, Jon met Sansa's eyes, as if he would find the answers there. She was the one who had witnessed the horrible act, after all. But her face had been carved of ice, her profile forged from Valyrian steel. He looked away._

_He was to die today, of that he was certain. He had murdered Daenerys Targaryen. He had slain a queen, and his own aunt. It did not matter that he did so for the realm. It did not matter that he had done it to save his family, and the tired people who were exhausted of fighting. Jon's crimes exceeded a single, bloodied dagger and a sole dead queen. She had murdered thousands, and Jon had not stopped her._

_Jon had been in chains when it happened. Varys had succeeded in releasing his little birds, and the news of Jon's parentage had flown quickly through the kingdoms. Even Daenerys' own army had rustled nervously with the news. Her face had been a mask of fury, and she had commanded Jon be left behind, as she took King's Landing -_ her _birthright. There was nothing he could have done._

 _And yet he could have acted before. Put in chains again, following the death of his aunt, Jon had plenty of time for self-reflection, for his period of mourning and loathing. He could have acted, he could have listened. There were dozens of opportunities where Jon could have spoken softer words, made Daenerys_ listen _to him. The North had needed her dragons to defeat the Night King and his army of the dead, Jon still believed that. She had fought for the living, and a part of him had loved her for it. But she had become the harbinger of death._

_Jon stood, awaiting judgement from the lords and ladies of Westeros, with regret bearing down upon him like the Wall itself. His watch had ended long ago, and though he did not weep for the life he had taken with his own hands, he bore the burden of the thousands he had not saved. He deserved to die for his crime of inaction, if not the others he had surely committed._

Instead, they made him their king.

"You also have received a raven from Dorne, Your Grace," Davos said, snapping Jon out of the unpleasant memory. He had not returned to the Dragonpit since that accursed day, but his mind often drifted there when his discipline slipped.

Jon frowned and reached for Longclaw, fastening the sword to his belt. He had been offered all manner of swords and weapons since becoming King, including the one forged from Ice, that Jaime Lannister had carried with him to his death. That, Jon had sent North as a gift for his cousin's coronation, and had simply bestowed the others offered to him as tribute and gift. Longclaw had served him well all these years. A greatsword was impossible to match, and Jon intended to continue carrying the legacy of the now extinct House Mormont.

He allowed himself a moment of silence, paying his respects to his long dead mentor, the young girl who had been the first to declare him a king - even the exiled slaver from across the sea, who had given his life to preserve all of the living. It was only a moment before he raised his gaze once more, and focused on his steward once again.

"Is it an urgent matter?" Davos wore an uncomfortable look on his face, and Jon rolled his eyes. He could guess at the contents of the letter, and Davos' expression seemed to confirm it. "Very well. I will attend to it later today. There are more pressing matters first." Unfortunately, the Small Council meeting was one of them.

Jon hated those meetings. It was the very worst of politicking, what Jon struggled with the most. He was a strategist and a soldier, but the battle plans and weapons used in the world of courtly intrigue and social politics was as foreign to Jon as the lands across the Narrow Sea. The company did little to assuage his discomfort.

It was the worst kept secret in all of Westeros that the King and his Hand loathed one another. Perhaps there might have been fondness between them - Jon had once counted the dwarf among his friends - but there was little love now. There were some days when Jon could hardly stand to look at Tyrion, and he knew resentment grew within the Hand as a result. His appointment was a punishment to them both, though Jon was still uncertain if that had been the intention or not. Tyrion served the king he had betrayed his queen for, then rejected in the dragonpit, only to be reminded of his mistakes, and forgotten by history. Jon knew that some saw it as just. He was not among those.

"Do you have any idea what the point of discussion is?" Jon asked, moving toward the door of his chamber. Davos followed, appearing hesitant, and Jon's eyebrow rose. "Well? Surely it can't be as bad as the last meeting." Jon had only barely restrained himself from upending the table, and he and Tyrion had stood at opposite ends, red-faced with heaving chests, fists clenched tightly at their sides. Jon couldn't imagine today's meeting going quite that poorly. Though the expression on his steward's face inspired little confidence within him.

"I believe they wish to discuss a tourney, Your Grace. A tourney and a masque."

Jon breathed in deeply, reining in the anger that threatened to spill over. His hands were balled into fists, and he knew that if he were to glance down at his hands, he would see that his knuckles were white. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, and he spun to look at Ser Davos, who was fixing him with an apologetic stare.

"I see." It galled Jon to think of the council, sitting around a table, planning an expensive and frivolous event, let alone _two_. It had only just passed the date marking three years since the aborted conquest of Daenerys Targaryen. The realm still bled, and a tourney was being considered? There was a slight tremble to Jon's fingers, but if Davos noticed, he kept his silence. Bowing his head, he departed, murmuring soft words about another matter he had to attend to before the meeting, leaving Jon to the violence of his own thoughts.

Wrenching the door open, Jon stalked off, not waiting to see which direction Davos headed.

 _Probably to warn the members of my council of my mood_ , Jon thought darkly to himself. He knew they found him brooding and temperamental. He didn't care. He hadn't been bred to lead a kingdom, let alone six. His birth had no bearing on whether or not he was a good ruler. He could have been. He _had been_ , once. Jon knew it was the truth to say he had been good at being the king of the North. But there were notable differences.

Stalking down the corridor toward the council chambers, Jon wondered if he would ever truly feel like the true king. He hadn't even felt like the rightful king of the North. Guilt over Robb and his own childhood envy had weighed heavily around his neck. The guilt that, though there was a trueborn Stark far better suited to rule, Jon had taken his cousin's birthright by virtue of sex crept into his heart. Jon had lived a lifetime of guilt. He wondered if any man could feel like a king, with so much of it pressing down.

"Ah, Your Grace! I was hoping you could spare a moment of your time."

Wrenched from the privacy of his own thoughts, Jon gritted his teeth. This was becoming a regular occurrence, every time he stepped outside of the royal apartments. It had only been three years since the Great Burning, but enough of the keep had been restored for the nobles to begin crawling their way back into the city, and attempting to crawl their way into the good graces of their stoic king. Jon hated it. There was nowhere else to house the nobility, he had been told on numerous occasions, without putting the smallfolk and citizens of King's Landing out of their own homes. They had suffered enough, and Jon would not see them forced to give up their shelter and safety, purely for the cruel and selfish gentry who would only turn up their noses in snobbery at such accommodations besides.

Neither though, could Jon refuse the nobility entry and hospitality in King's Landing. They were the lords and ladies of his kingdom, unwillingly acquired or not, and he had to put them up, if not placate him. He knew his council desperately wished he would choose the latter more often, but Jon so rarely did. He had no tolerance for these highborn lords and ladies, who thought only of taking from the Crown's limited coffers, and putting it into their own pockets. It would be a different matter, if Jon ever heard requests that served the common folk, but such instances were rare. Jon recalled only hearing one request that was not utterly self-serving in nature. It was a testament to the patience he had learned in his role of the king, both times he had been crowned, that he had not given into the anger underneath his skin, and simply run the fools through, for daring to voice such petty, selfish demands. Jon could not refuse the lords and ladies hospitality, and he certainly could not murder one under his roof. He was a Snow, a Targaryen - _a Stark_ , his mind still whispered, only at night, only when Jon would allow himself the one indulgence - not a Frey.

But that did not mean that Jon was required to listen to such petitions, when brought to him outside of the court.

"I'm afraid I do not have it to grant, Ser Hardying," Jon said stiffly. He knew very little about the knight from the Vale, and he cared even less. The little he _had_ heard left him unimpressed, to say the least. Harold Hardyng, once the heir presumptive to the Vale, when it seemed that Robert Arryn would die of illness, was the tall, golden knight of the songs that left a trail of broken hearts and swollen bellies in his wake. Jon's tolerance for such men was incredibly low.

Hardyng, however, seemed undeterred.

"It is a brief matter Your Grace. Perhaps I can accompany you on your walk to the council chamber, and make my petition?"

Already turning his brisk pace brutal, Jon gave Ser Hardyng a cold smile, full of teeth.

"I'm afraid I must decline your request, good Ser," Jon said tonelessly, not even attempting to infuse an apologetic note into his delivery. He saw the knight's eyes narrow, and his own narrowed in turn. "I prefer the silence of my own thoughts, in preparation for dealing with matters of the realm. I will be listening to the petitions of the common folk today in court. If there is a chance for you to speak, I will grant it to you then." Jon would ensure that there was no such opportunity, but Harold Hardyng had no choice but to accept the terms Jon laid out.

He was certain he would receive a lecture about this from Tyrion later. He would complain that he had somehow offended an entire sixth of the kingdom, for this perceived - and fully intentional - slight about an annointed knight. Jon didn't care. Harold Hardyng did not hold the Vale, and was therefore inconsequential. Even if he had, Jon wouldn't have allowed him the moment to speak. Jon had never been good at thinking of people as pieces, and he was terrible at the games such players insisted on thrusting upon him. Courtly life suffered for it, but Jon cared not. He was busy rebuilding the kingdoms, and ensuring that the thousands who had died over the course of many wars, had not all done so in vain.

Reaching the door to the council chamber in record time, due to his desire to outpace the Young Falcon, Jon took a deep, calming breath, and opened the door. Immediately, several chairs were pushed back, and Jon allowed his cool eyes to appraise those gathered in the room.

The tension was already thick, and for once, Jon doubted it had anything to do with him. His Master of Ships and Master of Law were glaring at each other across the table, while Sam's eyes darted between Jon and the pair of them. It was unsurprising, given the animosity between the Ironborn and Rivermen, but Jon was irritated nonetheless.

"Sit down," he snapped, shooting Lady Greyjoy and Lord Mallister a glare. His Master of Law, at least, appeared somewhat contrite, but Yara Greyjoy's lip curled, and she turned away from him. There was little love between her and Jon. Jon had accepted Theon - though he never truly forgave the man - based on what he had done for Sansa, and later Bran. That same acceptance did not transfer to Lady Greyjoy. The feeling was quite mutual, given her thirst for his blood following Daenerys' death. However, the Ironborn had needed to be brought to heel, and Jon refused to thrust the kingdoms into warfare once again. Davos had served as his Master of Ships for the first two years of his rule, allowing Yara the chance to settle her affairs in Pyke, before taking over. She was thoroughly unpleasant, but Jon would grudgingly admit that she was excellent at her position, when she wasn't at the throat of Lord Jason Mallister.

Jon had not known the man well, prior to his appointment, but both Tyrion and Davos had assured Jon that he was well suited to be the Master of Law. Jon had impressed upon the Lord of Seagard, when he was named to the Small Council, just how important his role was, due to Jon's lack of familiarity with King's Landing and its customs. While it was true that Jon had received a lord's education alongside Robb - to the perpetual chagrin of Lady Stark - a lord's education was quite different than that of a king. And it had been an education tailored for men of the North, who were destined to remain North for all of their days. Jon had some leeway, given that the process of rebuilding a kingdom did not simply mean the infrastructure, but it was necessary, as the judicial advisor to the king, for the Master of Laws to know both the letter and the spirit of the law.

Glancing around the room, and noting everyone's presence, Jon sighed. "Since we're all present, let us begin. Ser Davos mentioned a matter of discussion. Something about a tourney and a masque?" Jon phrased it as a question, laden with judgement. To his left, Theodore Tyrell shifted uncomfortably, and Jon wondered if his Master of Coin had been the origin of such a suggestion. Carefully examining each member of his council, Jon made his way to the ornate chair set at the head of the table - the king's seat. Refusing to meet the calculating gaze of the Lannister to his right, Jon stared at the other members instead.

"If it pleases Your Grace," Lord Amory Serrett interjected, and Jon almost snorted. He hated that phrase. It only ever seemed to be used before things that would decidedly _not_ please him. As if his pleasure should even matter. He was king. He served only the realm. "If it pleases Your Grace, there is precedent for such an event."

Jon raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued, against his better judgement. "Go on."

Emboldened, the Master of Whispers continued to speak.

"Masques were introduced during the rein of your ancestors, the Targaryens." Jon clenched his hand into a fist underneath the table, but said nothing. He hated the way people so often sought to remind him of his Targaryen blood, as if he could ever forget it. "They were fanciful events of music and pageantry, held during peacetime. It became tradition for a tourney, followed by a masque, to be hosted after a period of fighting, during a time of peace and recovery. The last was held shortly after your birth." After Robert's Rebellion. After the war that had only served to lay the foundations for many more to come. Jon gritted his teeth, but he saw Tyrion give a tiny shake of his head from the corner of his eye, advising Jon against speaking his mind.

Swallowing down a growl, and wishing his Hand was easily ignored, Jon managed a stony expression, and gruff voice. "Let us consider this matter at length, at a later time," he proposed, a compromise that rankled, "And for now turn our attentions to the more pressing matters of the realm."

* * *

 

Thankfully no ambitious, sniveling knights or lords dared approach Jon as he all but stormed his way to the godswood of King's Landing, fury pumping through his blood to the rhythm of his pounding heart. The council meeting had dragged on for close to three hours, and Jon knew if he looked at the palms of his hands, he would find bloodied half-moon marks carved into the callouses, from clenching his fists so tightly.

It did not matter that Jon Snow had been named Aegon Targaryen at his birth. It did not matter that he was the rightful ruler of all of Westeros. He had not been born to rule. He hadn't the mind nor the spirit for him. He spent his days wanting to scream until his throat ran red and raw with blood. Perhaps he would have felt this way, even if he had been sent to the Wall, but that was not his fate. No, Jon had been placed in chains of a different sort, a circlet of silver placed over his dark curls, a crown he had never asked for.

All but collapsing in front of the weirwood, Jon closed his eyes, and reached within for another steadying breath. Before he could calm his racing heart, images of another ruler, another unfit to rule, rose in his mind, unbidden.

_“When I was a girl, my brother told me it was made with a thousand swords from Aegon’s fallen enemies. What do a thousand swords look like in the mind of a little girl who can’t count to twenty? I imagined a mountain of swords too high to climb. So many fallen enemies you could only see the soles of Aegon’s feet.” Her eyes had turned bright, joyous. They darkened with something akin to sorrow, only as Jon approached. “The chains were necessary,” she said softly. “I was worried what you might do. How your sister might have poisoned you.”_

_He had been freed from the chains, long after the screams had stopped. The city still burned. It burned, even now._

_“I saw them executing Lannister prisoners in the street. They said they were acting on your orders.” Jon’s voice was hoarse. He felt as though his very body was torn to pieces, sutured only by exhaustion and duty._

_“It was necessary.”_

_“Necessary?” His voice was shaded with true disbelief now, horror building within him as he stared at the Mother of Dragons. Her eyes were wild with righteousness, ablaze with hope._

_“We can’t hide behind small mercies.”_

_Jon closed his eyes. What mercy was this? What mercy did she think she had granted? Jon knew mercy. He had been raised at the foot of Eddard Stark. This kingdom, the damned throne that Daenerys so coveted, the hideous mountain of swords, dreamed of by a young girl who could not count to twenty, was the prize worth the blood and ashes of_ millions _._

_“The world we need is a world of mercy. It has to be.” His voice had steeled, but Daenerys did not hear it. She did not notice the way he held himself, as if preparing for battle once more._

_“And it will be.”_

_He nodded, Daenerys’ eyes trained only on him. “Aye, it will be.”_

_The dagger, though smaller than Longclaw, weighed heavier at his side than his sword of Valyrian steel. It had to be_ this _dagger. Jon was not one for such symbolism, but Arya had handed him the blade, and he had_ known _. This blade had been used to kill the Night King, to end the Long Night, It had been used in a failed attempt on Bran's life, and had launched the War of the Five Kings. This was the dagger of the game, the game that had left the land ravaged and suffering. It would be used once more, and then never again._

_“I, Aegon of the House Targaryen, rightful king of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, sentence you to die.” Jon had been raised by Eddard Stark. He knew mercy. He had been taught the lesson of a merciful death._

_Dany's eyes widened, but before she could say the command on her lips, before she could bid her son burn Jon where he stood, he plunged the dagger into her heart._

Jon's eyes snapped open with a hoarse cry that sounded like a howl in the wind.

* * *

 

Ser Davos Seaworth sighed as he looked out the window of his solar, to the training yards where his king was currently making a fool of a pompous member of the City Watch. While the Onion Knight had no doubt that the lad had likely done or said something that certainly warranted being taken to task, he could not help but feel pity for the soul that found himself on the other side of the king's always present anger. It was nearly impossible to divest the fury from the king of the Six Kingdoms. So much so, that Davos, in his wry thoughts, sometimes wondered if Jon Snow was not the secret prince of another king. Ours is the fury suited him far better than fire and blood. Though there was often fire in his king's voice and temperament, Davos had seen Targaryen fire. He had watched a city burn. None of that was what he saw in the once bastard of Winterfell.

No. Instead, Davos saw a lost, angry man, struggling under the burdensome weight of a crown he did not want. Davos saw what it was doing to him, each day. Davos knew that the burden of kinslaying, even if just, and necessary for the protection of the realm, was heavy upon Jon's soul. He had not taken to kingship, and soon all would suffer because of it.

It had surprised Davos, in a way that had not surprised others. Everyone knew that Jon was reluctant to be king. Davos knew that Jon had only used his given, royal name a handful of times - one of those being the execution of Daenerys Targaryen. But Davos was still caught off guard by how much his king struggled to rule. Jon was an excellent soldier, and a good leader. Davos had watched his reign in the North, short as it may have been, and he had done well. But he had assistance, and he was in the land he had deeply loved. Finding a sense of belonging had been a lifelong dream of his, Jon had confessed to Davos once, on a cold Northern night, huddled around the fire as the Lady of Winterfell quietly sewed with the skill and effectiveness of any battle hardened warrior.

Now it was clear that Jon did not feel he belonged here. He certainly didn't feel that he belonged as king. He did a fine job of it, with the smallfolk. King's Landing, while still damaged, still recovering, was steadily beginning to thrive again. What was more, it was becoming a place where people _wanted_ to come, something that had been lost long before a silver-haired queen had arrived from across the Narrow Sea. Free from the clutches of lions and dragons, Jon had been instrumental in rebuilding King's Landing. He had often been seen in the streets himself, moving bricks, and laying new foundations. It had greatly endeared him to the people, and word began to spread of the new, benevolent king who could inspire hope. Jon did well with the smallfolk.

It was the nobility that would end his reign, of that Davos was certain.

Jon had no patience for the entitled lords and ladies, and truth be told, neither did Davos. But he was not the king, and he was better at lying about it than Jon. Gods be good, the king - for all his subterfuge with the dragon queen - was quite possibly the worst liar in the Six Kingdoms and the North. His disgust when talking to the pompous noblemen and women was barely disguised - if he ever bothered to try and disguise it at all. Davos was no Amory Serrett, but he heard the whispers all the same. The noble folk did not like Jon. They didn't like him at all, and it was dangerous. Jon's rule was shaky enough as it was. A coup would be catastrophic, not least because it would shatter the tentative peace, and launch the already destabilized kingdoms into war again. Davos found it impossible to shake off his dark suspicion that if Westeros were to fall into war again, it would not survive.

It was therefore paramount that Jon find his footing as a king, and learn the ways of the court, whether he liked it or not.

It was that sense of determination and urgency that Davos channeled as his quill scrawled across the page. His words were plain and unadorned, but he was certain his meaning and intentions were clear. His king would not forgive him for this, Davos knew. He was deliberately going behind Jon's back, and approaching perhaps the one thing that could inspire true Targaryen rage within him. But Davos could live without his king's forgiveness. He knew he would never forgive himself if he let Jon - and therefore Westeros - be destroyed by an inability to handle the court.

"Fly quickly," Davos whispered, fastening the letter to the raven, sending his prayer to the gods as he did so. "Fly quickly, and fly North."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and thoughts are always appreciated <3


	2. out of time and out of place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A queen arrives in King's Landing. A king is caught by surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, i am truly blown away by the response to this! thank you so much for all of your kind words, it truly means the world to me! just a note: the jon depicted in this fic will be a mix of book!Jon and show!Jon, so keep that in mind!
> 
> chapter title - of monsters and men

"King's Landing is in sight, Your Grace."

The Northern queen did not need the announcement from the eager, bare-faced boy who had ridden ahead on a scouting mission, given by an easily irritated guard, seeking relief from the incessant chattering. Although Sansa Stark had taken the Kingsroad from Winterfell to King's Landing only twice before, the path was blazoned in her memory. She could never forget. Even if the shape of the road had not been so familiar in her mind - and what horrors it brought, the monsters that lived in the shadows of the land - Sansa would have known. Even in winter, the heat was thick and oppressive, wrapping around her throat like a vice, and choking the voices of the retinue that accompanied her South. It was not quite the humid warmth from Sansa’s days as a girl in King’s Landing, but neither was it the bitter chill of the Northern lands she reigned.

Sansa had not wanted to travel with a large party. She remembered the fanfare over a king's arrival in Winterfell, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She had only been a girl then - no matter what her figure had looked like to they eager, watchful eyes of the men and women who would prey upon her for her beauty, her name, her station - but the North remembered. And she was the queen of the North - some even said a part of the land itself. Sansa certainly remembered with the clarity and frequency the ubiquitous adage implied. So she remembered what seemed like the entirety of the realm descending upon Winterfell, and the troubles they brought with them. 

She had not wanted to do the same. For one, the courts of Winterfell and King's Landing were very different places - even now, years after the Great Burning. While Winterfell had not fallen to dragon fire as King's Landing had, it had been ravaged by winter. It had hit all of the kingdoms with a fierce and swift brutality, but the North in particular had suffered, so soon after the War for Dawn. Still, Winterfell had stood. In the years since taking the throne, however, Sansa's focus had been on her people, and on rebuilding. Between the many wars and frequent shifts of power, the North had been left in a near catastrophic state. All of Sansa's energy had gone into repairing her homeland, and her work was still far from completion. There was little time for entertaining courtiers, and partaking in the fanciful traditions of the Southron court that King Robert had once brought with him to Winterfell. But the memory of it had remained with Sansa all the same, as the lords and ladies of the North beseeched her to take more and more people with her to the South. She had settled on a number, one that left both the nobles and the queen dissatisfied, but it had been the closest compromise either was willing to accept. 

It was a small suite that Sansa brought with her, but made up of those she trusted implicitly. Ser Brienne of Tarth accompanied her, as always, alongside Ser Podrick. Sansa had been displeased by the development, wanting to give Ser Podrick Payne the title of master at arms, but he had told her in no uncertain terms, he would not be leaving his queen and his knight. Sansa wondered if he would ever be able to shed his squire mentality; she very much doubted it. Still, there were far worse people to follow than Brienne of Tarth.

Behind Ser Brienne were a handful of Sansa’s ladies, that also served as some of her most trusted advisors. Beth Cassel, the young woman Sansa had known since girlhood, had hardened like ice in the face of the bitter winter, but there remained a certain softness to her eyes, as she brushed Sansa’s hair each morning, rough, calloused fingers twining red strands into all manners of braided designs. She had insisted on accompanying her queen South with the fierceness that Sansa had grown to expect from the once docile girl. Beth had served as Sansa’s chief handmaiden, and unofficial Master of Whispers since her coronation. Even if the last Cassel had not made it abundantly clear that she would be traveling with the Northern queen, Sansa would have requested her presence. She would need Beth’s keen eyes, and soft, private smiles more than ever.

A viridescent flash ahead of her caught Sansa’s eye, and she trapped a sigh between her teeth. Sansa had weighed her options carefully, before departing Winterfell, knowing that she could only bring one of the Manderly sisters with her. Wynafryd was far better suited to the court of King’s Landing, however Sansa had decided to bring her younger sister instead. She was uncertain enough, leaving the recently returned Arya and Bran alone in Winterfell, particularly with Ondrew Locke attempting to stir up as much trouble as he could feasibly manage. Sansa had hoped that leaving them some of her most trusted advisors would be enough of an influence for the Prince and Princess of the North. So Sansa had brought the green-haired sister along with her, despite her reservations. Still, Wylla was not Sansa’s most unwelcome companion.

Beren Tallhart, leading a small group of the city guards, was not Sansa’s first choice. Not as the captain of the household guard, and not as an escort on this journey. He was young, younger than Sansa even, but so was much of Sansa’s household. The war and winter had stolen many of the Northern nobles, leaving children in power. Even Sansa felt as though she could hardly call herself a woman, though she was a queen, and twice wed.

The matter of her third marriage was precisely why Sansa had not wanted to bring Beren along. She knew the Tallharts had designs on a royal match between Sansa and their heir, Brandon. Sansa had purposefully avoided any discussion of marriage following her coronation, citing the necessity to rebuild the North. However, the lords and ladies of the North were growing increasingly bolder, finding every possible opportunity to remind Sansa that part of the rebuilding process meant giving the North heirs. Although Sansa was young and healthy, the North certainly remembered the last young and healthy Stark who had been crowned a ruler.

It had been Lady Barbrey Dustin who dared to point out the crisis that had emerged after the fall of King Robb, as if Sansa could ever forget the man who had claimed Winterfell as his own. The flash of icy anger in Sansa’s eyes at the allusion to her former husband had quelled the discussion of her marriage, but it was a temporary state of affairs. Sansa’s marriage was of the utmost importance to the North, and her decision to travel South had certainly caused ripples of concern to spread throughout her kingdom. Allowing Beren to lead a group of guards to accompany her had been Sansa’s attempt at appeasing the nobles who were concerned their Northern queen would seek out a Southern match. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Many words were spoken in the North, about the men and women who dared to venture South. The whispers increased by a hundredfold, when one of those traveling to the South was a Stark. Though Sansa’s face was serene, and her posture intentionally relaxed, the rumors were not easily dispelled from her mind. Crimes were not easily forgotten in the North, and the South had done much that would need forgiveness. Not that any Northman or woman would be inclined to grant that forgiveness. 

Returning to the present, Sansa gave a nod of acknowledgement to the scout, whose lips split into a wide grin, and she chanced a glance at the stoic knight riding beside her.  Brienne was as grim-faced as any Northern lord, and Sansa had to force herself not to sigh. The South had taken much from Brienne of Tarth as well, and the queen knew it was only her selfishness that brought her beloved knight South with her. And yet she could not bring herself to regret the decision. Brienne had served faithfully by her side for five years. The knight from Tarth was Sansa's most loyal companion, save for Ghost, who had run ahead of the party. But Sansa knew all too well that the necessity of duty would never negate the font of painful memories that could be stirred as easily as a warm wind catching tendrils of a woman's hair on the nape of her neck. Knowing one's duty was often simple. Performing the duty rarely was.

She grimaced, and clutched the reins of her horse's bridle a little tighter in her gloved hands. Sansa knew that she ought to remove the gloves - too warm for those here in the South - but she was reluctant to bare any skin. Her hands remained relatively unblemished - save for a particularly nasty scar along the palm of her right hand - but it was not so long ago that Sansa has forgotten a different Southron court, in which far more of her flesh had been exposed for the sake of her humiliation and a bastard's pleasure. Her skin had been marred by the unforgiving fists of the Kingsguard, but it had been Sansa's spirit, more than anything, that had felt wounded under her former betrothed's 'careful ministrations'. 

Now a different king sat on whatever was left of the Iron Throne, but Sansa continued to armor herself with words as weapons, and her fabrics as her shields. Never mind the fact that Ser Brienne - and the three knights she had insisted on bringing along - made her feel safe. Never mind the fact that Sansa had irretrievable proof that Jon Snow Targaryen would do _anything_  for his family.

He was the king. It was a fact that Sansa would not easily forget, not when she had fought so viciously, for him to be acknowledged as such. She knew he bore her little gratitude for it, but Sansa had decided long ago, that how her family chose to regard mattered little to her, so long as they were alive to regard her at all. Perhaps it was another one of the sickly sweet lies she told herself to swallow it down, and let her drift off to sleep at night. Sansa told herself many lies, and had begun to forget where they began and ended. It was possible that she did care what her once bastard brother thought of her, and loathed whatever resentment he might hold in his heart toward her. But Sansa didn't allow herself to dwell on it. Jon Snow Targaryen was the king of the Six Kingdoms.

But he was no longer _her_  king.

And yet, here she was, leaving Winterfell behind, and riding South once more. Sansa had thought, in a moment of wild rebellion, born from anger and pain and rejection and _sorrow_ , to swear to herself that she would never ride South again. Vows and oaths had never done Sansa any good. The only person to ever keep a vow to Sansa, was the woman riding at her right side. And few men or women were as good as Ser Brienne of Tarth. 

Swearing an oath never to return South would be foolish and imprudent. She had done it once before, on a small rowboat, whisked away from King's Landing during the purpling hour of dusk. Sansa had turned to face the source of her misery and captivity, and she had promised she would never return. She had, of course. Sansa had hated King's Landing, and everything it stood for, but she loved her family more. Jon, whatever else he was, was certainly that. And now, he had need of her again.

Sansa may not have sworn an oath before a sacred tree, but she had never wanted to return to the Southern Kingdoms. She had no desire to step foot into King's Landing - the City of Ashes - again. She would have happily lived an entire lifetime, avoiding that very task, but the raven had come. She was a queen in her own right, and the rightful ruler of the North, but she would come, if the South beckoned. Sansa wondered how many knew. How many might suspect, that for all her fervor and zeal for Northern independence, all Jon Targaryen need do was to ask, and Sansa would come? It was a dangerous truth, and one Sansa hoped was widely unknown. She would never do anything that was not in the best interest of her kingdom, but the matter of Sansa Stark was a different one entirely.

The raven had come the day after her sister had returned to Winterfell, energized and emboldened by her travels to the West. 

It was the only thing that had kept Sansa from running straight to her sister, and enveloping her with trembling arms. Two years, though a shorter time than their other separations, had stretched into an infinite sadness in Sansa's mind. She had been eager to receive word that Arya would be returning to Winterfell, if only for a brief respite. But the raven from the South had ignited an eagerness within Sansa as well. 

Her correspondence with the Southern Kingdoms, following her own coronation as the queen in the North, had been scant. She could count the number of ravens she had received on one hand. The raven that arrived on the day of Arya's return had only been the sixth. There had been much to settle between the North and the South, but a great reluctance to do so. It did not help matters that the king refused to write to her, and Sansa greatly mistrusted the Southron king's Hand. Ser Davos had taken it upon himself, as the king's steward, to send the necessary letters to the winter kingdom. Such occasions were rare, and the messages brief. Sansa never received as much information as she would have liked, and she suspected it was intentional. Ser Davos had never fully trusted her, and was loyal to the end. He likely knew how Sansa craved to hear of Jon, and he refused to write anything indicating how her cousin might be faring in his role as the king. Family or not, they were rulers of two different kingdoms. Their people came before their pack.

And yet, Ser Davos had written, relaying Jon's request, and Sansa had departed Winterfell a moon after receiving the raven. Arya had been understanding, though her grey eyes remained inscrutable as ever. Sansa had wanted to visit with her sister, but Arya had dismissed her concerns, and urged her South, the sardonic twist of her lips glinting in a way that almost looked cruel, with the shadows of the fire in Sansa's solar cast upon her face. Arya was different from the girl of Sansa's youth, and different even from the wolf who had left for the sea. Sansa would have liked the chance to get to know the Arya who had returned once more, but her sister had promised she would be there upon Sansa's return. The Starks knew the importance of farewells. Too many of them had been lost without parting words, understood for what they were. Sansa would not let it happen again, to what was left of her family. 

It was not the thought of farewells that made Sansa's stomach churn now, each step bringing her closer to what had once been her gilded cage. It was the prospect of a welcoming - or perhaps none at all. Her cousin's steward had been reticent as always in his letter, refusing to say outright _why_  Jon had requested her presence in the Southron capital, and why she was so desperately needed. Sansa had her suspicions, and had long ago learned to trust her instincts, but she still remained doubtful. The king had not even written to her himself. Sansa certainly understood the business of a ruler, and how certain tasks fell to the wayside in the face of running a kingdom, but Sansa always penned the letters to her family herself. She did not trust anyone else's hand when it came to those she regarded as her pack. 

Jon had more than one kingdom though, Sansa reminded herself sternly, trying to settle the uneasiness in her stomach. The Northern terrain was vast in terms of land, but there was a far greater population in the South. The devastation had been catastrophic, and Jon's days were likely filled with all manner of small fires that needed immediate tending. Writing to his estranged cousin was a task that would be easily delegated to his steward. 

Still, Sansa would be lying to herself if she refused to admit that she had felt the small pinpricks of hurt, when she realized that Jon had been unwilling or unable to write to her. She had considered sending him another raven, after the confirmation she sent to Davos, but had thought better of it. Surely Jon was under enough stress as it was, preparing for her visit on top of whatever else had driven him to seek out her help in the first place. Her cousin, Targaryen though he might have been born, was a Northman, and he had a Northman's pride. Trusting others and asking for help had not come easily to Jon, particularly after the betrayal at the hands of the men he trusted to follow him. In the early days of ruling the North together - a time Sansa did not allow herself to think back on often - he had learned how to turn to Sansa and rely on her, and she had learned the same with him. But years had passed since that time. Jon was a different king, and Sansa was now a queen in name and practice. Sending the raven could not have been an easy thing, and Sansa feared whatever welcome awaited her at the Red Keep would be as chilly as the Northern winter.

"I'm amazed there's even any snow down here," Wylla grumbled quietly under her breath, though her voice carried enough for Sansa to hear it. "It's so bloody hot."

Sansa couldn't help chuckling to herself. The winter that had descended over Westeros was said to have been the coldest and harshest in centuries. At times, Sansa had felt as though she had been engaged in yet another war, with the earth itself. Hundreds had starved in the short weeks after her coronation. Thousands more would have perished, had it not been for Bran’s shrewd suggestion of striking a temporary alliance with the Ironborn. The two regions would never be friendly, but Yara had allowed Northmen to take up fishing in Ironborn waters, in exchange for Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore. There was little love lost between the two women, but they had set personal feelings aside to benefit their lands. Seafood had become a staple of a Northern diet, and it had sustained the kingdom, long enough for trades to be negotiated, and for more glass gardens to be constructed. Some of the Maesters predicted that spring was steadily approaching, but Sansa had long ago lost faith in prophecy. 

“My House’s words affect all of Westeros,” Sansa reminded Wylla. “Not just the North.” Though there had been some speculation that winter would die with the Night King, it had swept through the continent, bitter and unforgiving. Sansa remembered the predictions of a winter to match the summer of peace that had felt anything but. She drew strength from her resolution to set aside such empty words and divinations from the Maesters, lest she fall into despair. The North was surviving, and even beginning to thrive, but a decade long winter would be devastating. Surely the rest of the kingdoms, none of which had prepared for the winter, would suffer more.

Perhaps the season was what had pushed Jon to such a breaking point. For all that Sansa and her people had struggled in the early days of winter, it must have been near impossible to rebuild entire kingdoms, let alone rebuild the devastated food supplies in the midst of winter. Sansa very much doubted that her cousin truly wished to see her, but she was a Stark. Winter was in her blood, and Jon had watched her prepare their people for winter and war on both fronts. 

Sansa knew it was pointless to speculate, without seeing Jon and asking him. The raven had been brief and almost recalcitrant, much like the Jon Sansa remembered arguing with, night after night in the intimacy of her solar, the crackling fire casting shadows upon their faces, providing Sansa with a darkness in which to hide the painful twists and betrayals of her heart inside her chest. Jon’s steward had given her next to nothing with his demand - request - for Sansa to ride North. Her hand had clenched at the audacity, before her fingers had relaxed, tapping against her desk to the rhythm of her thoughts. And yet here she was, King’s Landing in sight, riding toward Jon, and an unknown.

There was an uneasiness in her stomach that had everything to do with the South. Sansa was more prepared for King’s Landing than she had been as a child, it was true, but she still felt woefully uninformed. While Sansa had no doubt that Jon had done what he could to affect real change, King’s Landing - even razed and rebuilt - was a viper’s nest. Knowledge was power, and Sansa did not have enough of it.

In fact, Sansa was approaching King's Landing with very little to offer. While it was true she was a queen, the South was a very different kingdom, and the court was a battlefield of wit and whispers. Knowledge and appearances were the currency here. Of course, such things cost actual coin. Sansa had spies in King's Landing, of course. She suspected Jon had his own in Winterfell. It would be foolish to remain blind to another kingdom, even if Sansa trusted the king implicitly. But King's Landing was large, and the court was insidious, and Sansa could only afford so many little birds to whisper in her ear. 

Court life was another matter altogether. In the North, Sansa dressed practically. The occasional dress she might have loved as a child did make it into her wardrobe - Beth's doing, no doubt - but Sansa wore unadorned dresses and ate simple fare. It was winter, and Sansa refused to live lavishly while her people struggled. Even with the supplement of seafood to the Northern diet, the smallfolk suffered. Sansa would never make light of that by indulging in luxuries that served no purpose, no matter Brienne's gentle reminders that dreams were not terrible things. Sansa still believed in songs, and she still believed in the beauty and romance of knights and ladies long since past. But she had learned the truth of them too.

One day, she might be the subject of a song. One day, some golden throated bard might sing of a great love in Sansa's life. In such a song, she would be beautiful, and wear glittering jewels, and swing in the arms of a handsome knight, with rich fabric swaying around her ankles.

But for now she was a queen, and the songs never sang about the ugliness of sovereignty. 

Sansa traveled to King's Landing with a chest full of beautiful dresses, and a small box containing the few jewels she owned. Though she had felt a modicum of guilt each night, as she bent over the fabric in her solar, Sansa couldn't deny the small thrill of excitement that ran up her spine at the thought of wearing such finery again. The gowns she had made were utterly impractical for the North, but wholly necessary in the surreptitious world of the King's Landing court. The South had seen three queens in as many years, all great beauties who displayed their power and station for the world to see. Sansa - while not as daring as Margaery, nor as bold as Cersei, nor as ethereal as Daenerys - could not afford to present herself as anything less. 

She was beautiful, certainly. Sansa had been told that her whole life. But her beauty had ceased to hold any meaning for her. Once, Sansa's appearance had been all that mattered to her. Sometimes she thought back to that time with great shame, before ration tempered her humiliation, and she reminded herself that she had been a girl of three and ten, in a world in which a woman's beauty often _was_  the only thing that mattered. Sansa was no longer that girl. There might have been some small part of her, buried deep, that still cared, that still longed to be called beautiful, but she had long ago shut that away, deep in the recesses of her heart. The last man to call her beautiful had stared at her with hungry eyes and a deadened heart that once beat for a woman who was lost to the Trident. The last woman to call her beautiful wished to see Sansa burn. Sansa's beauty no longer mattered to her. 

It would matter to the court, though. The South had always held certain opinions of the North. _Savages_ , Sansa had heard, more than once, during her first stay in the Red Keep. Now the North was even more foreign, even more apart - an entirely different kingdom. It was by choice, and it brought no small measure of relief, but Sansa knew it would make her life in court more difficult, for however long she was to stay. She could not afford to be seen as a dowdy, ascetic queen from a frozen wasteland. The _North_  could not afford it.

Sansa had come South for Jon, but she was still the queen of the North. Few envoys were willing to travel North to make any sort of trade, and even fewer members of the Six Kingdoms of the South knew what the North had to offer. Sansa had several of her own ideas hovering in the back of her mind, but she needed to form organic connections first. The South was still rebuilding, much like the North, and they had still suffered from the harsh winds of winter. Although no one was spoiling for another war, neither were lords and ladies eager to strike up a new relationship with a kingdom few had paid any mind to, until Robb Stark had called his bannermen, and allowed them to place a crown on his head. Sansa knew that to form new alliances and friendships, she would first have to show the South all that her kingdom was capable of.

Her dress, while not terribly practical for riding, would certainly be eye-catching enough. She had selected a gown of Tully blue, an intentional reminder of her ties to Riverrun. It was lined with pale gray fur at the collar and sleeves, calling to mind the sigil of her House, and the albino direwolf that traveled silently beside her. Sansa had added silver thistle embellishes along the length of her dress, reminiscent of the delicate engravings on her wooden throne, left behind in Winterfell. A thin silver belt engraved with images of direwolves racing across the width, was cinched around Sansa's waist. Sansa had elected to wear the marsh diadem. Around Winterfell, Sansa very rarely wore any crown. In the South, she could not afford to allow anyone to forget that she was a queen. The crown that had been placed upon her head for her coronation had been fashioned hastily, created with both the Young Wolf and the White Wolf in mind. The North remembered, and its queen would never allow her kingdom to forget their kings. But such a piece would be in poor taste for the South. Not only did it lack the intricacy favored by the lords and ladies, it was an uncomfortable reminder that the King of the Six Kingdoms had once been the king of the seventh. 

Instead, Sansa had chosen to ride into King's Landing wearing the coronet gifted to her by Meera Reed. Precious little was known of the Winter Queens who had served alongside the Starks of old, but House Reed had a memory longer than most. Their House was the direct descendants of the Laughing Wolf. Meera had told Sansa, as she presented her with the simple pewter band, incised with direwolves and reeds, that when King Rickon had taken the daughter of the defeated Marsh King to wife, he had the modest crown created for his queen, a symbol of their union and all it would bring. By no means was the marsh diadem the most beautiful of Sansa's bijouterie, but it had once been worn by a Stark queen of old. Sansa felt as if she was bringing a small piece of Winterfell with her, as she drew closer and closer to the pernicious keep. 

She wished she could have brought Meera. The crannogwoman had appeared, days after her coronation, marching straight up to Sansa, and demanding the Neck not be forgotten. Sansa remembered how her cheeks had flushed at the remonstration - she _had_  forgotten the marshes of the Neck. She had forgotten the remarkable young woman Bran had told her of, his voice as soft as a whisper, with a hint of the spark that she remembered being purely Brandon Stark. Meera had stayed at Winterfell, after her audience with the queen, though she occasionally returned to the Neck, to entreat with her father, and keep her eye on the matters of her homeland. Meera had quickly become one of Sansa's closest advisors, often reminding her of her wanderess sister. She was cold with Bran, but Sansa had suspected a gradual thawing of their relationship as Bran seemed to grow more and more like the boy they both remembered with every passing day. 

"Your Grace," Brienne began, and Sansa turned to face the Lord Commander of her queensguard. Several of the Northern lords had kicked up quite the fuss at Sansa's appointment. It had been an argument she quelled with a single, cold glance, reminding the loyal families of the North that Ser Brienne of Tarth had risked her life to bring the trueborn Stark daughter to the Wall - an accomplishment none of them could claim. Sansa did not hold the Northmen's inaction during her captivity over their heads. Nor did she forget.

"Ser?" Sansa asked, simply to watch Brienne's lips do the funny thing where they seemed to wish to twist upward in a smile, only to remember that was ought to wear the stern expression of a devoted knight. It truly was a lovely sight, and Sansa had resolved to remind Brienne of her title as often as she possibly could. Brienne was a _knight_  of the Six Kingdoms and of the North, for all of her days. Pride twisted in Sansa's belly at the very thought.

"We are drawing ever nearer to King's Landing. Perhaps you should move to the carriage?"

Sansa sighed. She made Brienne nervous. She made all of her guards nervous, riding out in the open like this. Sansa had never been a good horsewoman, not like Arya. Not like her Aunt Lyanna, who was said to have been born with reins in her hand. She had come to enjoy riding, though. Peace had descended upon Westeros, but peace of mind was a near impossible thing. Sansa had found in the weeks, moons, years following her ascent to the newly fashioned throne of Winterfell, that riding brought some small measure of it. She never went riding without an accompaniment, but she enjoyed the open air of the North. Now, traveling South, Sansa had no intention to retreat to the carriage. She had made use of it at various points during the journey, typically only when Podrick or Brienne grew all but insistent; however, Sansa had no intention to use it now.

"There is no cause to worry, Brienne," Sansa said softly, granting her beloved knight a rare smile. Sansa smiled more than she had following the death of her father, but such instances were still fleeting and infrequent. She found it easiest to smile at Brienne. "King Jon is expecting me. There is nothing to fear."

"There is everything to fear, Your Grace." Brienne's voice was equally soft, her eyes just as haunted as Sansa's. 

The Queen swallowed, her fingers fisting the fabric of her dress, draped over her knee, for just a moment, before she relaxed, and urged her horse steadily forward. 

"My father used to say the only time one can be brave, is when there is something to fear." Sansa had never heard her father say the words himself, but Bran had told her as much, one of the many nights he spent in her solar, resting by the fire, letting the flames flicker over his eyes, slowly calling the Bran Stark of Sansa's youth back to the surface. It was a creeping, inconsistent, painstaking thing, but Sansa felt her hope grow anew every time Bran shared such anecdotes of his past. "I feel that I have become very brave, ever since leaving Winterfell the first time," Sansa confessed, and she let her eyes drift forward, unable to witness the way Brienne's gaze would surely soften. "I will be brave now, and ride into King's Landing. Will you be brave with me, Ser Brienne?"

"Always," her knight vowed, her voice low and fierce with an intensity Sansa had only found in one other person.

Granting the woman at her side another smile, Sansa gently shifted her heels, urging her horse forward to meet Wylla at the front of the retinue. The Lion Gate was in sight, and Sansa forced herself to swallow down what remained of her fear, and hold her head high.

"Courage, my Queen," Wylla whispered, her voice as fierce as Brienne's, so assured, that for a moment, Sansa could pretend it was Arya riding next to her, back into the lion's den. As the travelers from Winterfell approached, Sansa heard the distant shouts from the City Watch, and saw the gate open before her eyes. She inhaled deeply, only to let the air rush past her lips just as quickly, when she realized the King was not waiting for her on the other side. Squashing down her disappointment along with her fear, Sansa kept her chin up, as she nudged her horse forward. It wasn't terribly surprising that Jon would have preferred to meet her at the Red Keep, away from the many prying eyes that now stared at the winter queen, more myth than woman here in the South. 

It was unsurprising, but Sansa could not stop the clench of her heart all the same. 

A moment later, several men draped in gold met Sansa's company, and she was forced to swallow down bile, along with her fear and disappointment. her hands clenched into fists around the reins of her horse, the tight press of her thighs against the palfrey's sides keeping him steady in place. Sansa found herself grateful for her gloves, which hid the whiteness of her tensed knuckles.

_They cannot hurt me,_  Sansa reminded herself sternly. _I a_ _m Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I have been home, and still I returned. You cannot frighten me._

Emboldened, Sansa raised an eyebrow simply, adopting a haughty air that made her feel as protected as the direwolf by her horse's side, the knight who had moved her horse around Sansa's, to put her body in between her queen's and the men donning the golden cloaks. 

"Her Grace, Queen Sansa Stark of the North, Protector of the Winter Realms, is here upon her cousin, King Jon's request. You will escort us to the Red Keep." Brienne's voice was commanding and powerful, and Sansa was reminded of the many times she had wished to sink into her lady mother's embrace, finding sanctuary in the protective grasp of Catelyn Stark. Sansa was a woman grown now, a queen, but she would not apologize for the comfort Brienne's very presence brought her, especially here.

One of the members of the City Watch stepped forward, bowing low, his face long and serious. "Your Grace," he said smoothly, and Sansa gave a small nod of acknowledgement. "I will lead your company to His Grace." Sansa heard the quiet whispers of other members of the City Watch, but she paid them no mind, allowing the knight who had stepped forward to walk the familiar path to the castle that had once been Sansa's inescapable cage. 

"Thank you Ser..."

"Ser Crakehall." 

"Ah." Sansa had thought she recognized the man's face, and her own became as firm as the stones of Winterfell, her eyes like the White Knife, frozen over in the dead of night. "Ser Merlon Crakehall, I presume?"

The knight simply nodded, his eyes focused ahead on the Red Keep, and not on the Red Queen. He was not memorable to Sansa, not in a distinctive way, but his face had sparked recognition. He had been one of the knights to be honored with the privilege of greeting Prince Oberyn Martell at the Kingsroad. An honor that the false King Joffrey had not been willing to take upon himself. 

Sansa closed her eyes, and sent a prayer. She prayed to the Seven, to Theon's Drowned God that she kept to, if only to feel him stirring in her blood, to the old gods who had never traveled so far South as to listen to a single girl's pleas. She doubted the gods listened to her anymore, but she prayed anyways, wishing the memories leave her, so that she might retain a clear mind. Westeros was at peace, but Sansa herself was not.

The ride to the Red Keep was silent, save for the noises of the animals, and the occasional whisper that Sansa chose to ignore, coming from behind her. Anxiety mounted in her belly, and she worried she might truly be sick  and humiliate herself in front of the people of King's Landing. The tremble of her hands only grew more pronounced as the party drew closer and closer, until finally, the King and his advisors were visible, standing on the steps, waiting to greet the Northern retinue.

At the sight of Jon, Sansa’s heart leaped in her chest, before sinking almost immediately, as she took in his stony expression, and the clothes he had chosen.

_Oh no._

Dread gripped Sansa tightly, and she could not stop the hand that flew to rub at her temple, of its own accord. 

Jon was standing upon the steps, his face streaked with sweat, wearing a simple black jerkin and breeches that were more reminiscent of Jon’s time at the Wall than anything Sansa had seen him wear yet. There was no coronet upon his dark curls, and indeed, the only thing that drew attention - aside from his natural appearance - was the Valyrian steel sword strapped to his side.

The fear that Sansa had forcibly swallowed down was rising in her throat, threatening to choke her. Her sharp gaze had not missed the dour expressions of the scattered nobility that had ventured out of the Red Keep to witness the reunion between cousins, the welcome of another royal to court. The limited lords and ladies were worrying enough, to say nothing of their expressions. 

_Jon, what have you_ done _?_

Sansa was a queen, a royal of equal stature to the King of the Six Kingdoms. The only person in all of Westeros who held as much power as Sansa Stark, was the man standing in front of her, with unreadable grey eyes. She was on equal footing to Jon, and he had come to greet her, a _queen_ , in the clothes he had worn to the training yard. If he couldn’t be bothered to dress in a manner befitting such an arrival, the gods knew how many he had offended with such a blase disregard for propriety - the people who would perceive such an action as a grievous offense, and not simply despair as Sansa now did.

She kept her face carefully blank, and drew her horse to a gentle stop. She made to dismount, but in an instant, Jon was suddenly in front of her, his large hands around her waist, helping her off her horse, and overwhelming Sansa with his presence and his scent.

“Your Grace,” He greeted, loud enough for the eavesdropping lords and ladies to hear. His dominant hand moved from Sansa’s waist to instead grasp her smaller hand in his own, bringing it up to his lips to press a gentle kiss against the knuckles. Before Sansa could sink into a curtsey, Jon drew her into a hug, shocking her with the action, given the anger he had directed at her upon their last meeting.

Her surprise gave way to understanding almost immediately, as Jon’s mouth pressed against the shell of her ear, his voice a dark and angry whisper.

_“What are you doing here?”_

Sansa’s heart sank lower, a feat she had not thought possible, and dread felt heavy in her stomach. She pulled away from Jon’s grasp, swallowing, her blue eyes searching for answers in the king’s blackened expression. She found only one.

She should have never returned to King’s Landing.

* * *

Jon flexed his sword hand as he stormed his way toward the godswood, his warpath undisturbed by the members of the castle. His mind was reeling, teeth clenched so tightly together that a dull ache was beginning to form along his temples. His anger was palpable, and he was certain if Sansa were to see him now, she would look upon him with the same gaze of disappointment that Jon remembered from his childhood, coming from another pair of cold, blue eyes.

The fact that Sansa was present at all in the Red Keep was the source of Jon's anger. He had been in the training yards, brutally taking Ser Lucas Longinch to task following the man's uncouth behavior toward one of the serving girls. Jon had thought the men and women of the court had learned that such behavior was not tolerated under Jon's rule - given the last man to place an unwanted hand upon a woman employed by the Crown had lost his hand to Jon's sword - but it seemed that some lessons were not easily learned. Jon certainly did not mind being the one to deliver such harsh tutorials.

He had been displeased to hear the horn, and had ignored it, until he saw his steward and his Hand, lingering along the side of the training yard. 

"Your Grace!" Tyrion had called, and Jon had ignored him. Jon hated the title - a title he might have once envied in his darkest boyhood fantasies - but he especially hated it coming from the mouth of his Hand. He hated the way Tyrion's mouth shaped those words, the way he had shaped them for many other kings and queens before Jon. The same mouth that had been quick to proclaim Daenerys Targaryen his queen, and quicker to condemn Jon, if not for the intercession of his Stark cousins.  

Ignoring Tyrion had never worked for long, and it hadn't worked then either. Davos had cleared his throat, appearing uncomfortable, and Jon had frowned, straightening, and sparing the fallen knight the barest of glances, full of disgust and loathing. Jon had reached for the skein of water as he made his way over to his advisors, his prowling gait steady and guarded. Davos, he trusted. Tyrion, he did not. 

"What?" Jon had demanded, with all the impertinence of a king made to abandon his pleasures. Jon's vices were not the same as Robert Baratheon, nor Joffrey Lannister, but he was no Baelor the Blessed either. Jon held fast to his anger, and often directed it at Tyrion, as often as the dwarf lobbed pointed barbs at the king. Jon heard the whispers of the castle's servants; they thought it was only a matter of time before one of them killed the other. Staring down at his unwanted Hand, Jon agreed with the gossip. 

"Your Grace, the queen arrives." 

Jon had frowned then, staring at Tyrion's dark eyes, glittering with ill concealed anger.

"What queen?" He had demanded, catching a flash of genuine surprise that disappeared off Tyrion's face, as quickly as it had appeared.

"The queen in the North. Your cousin. _Sansa_."

The words had elicited no reaction from the king, for Jon had still not comprehended their meaning. He had stood there, looking a fool, staring between his Hand and his steward, seeking understanding, his frustration mounting all the while.

"What do you mean she arrives?"

"Her Grace is here, Your Grace," Davos interjected, before Tyrion could open his mouth to deliver some acerbic remark. "She's arriving with a small retinue. She'll be at the gates within the hour."

Like a cold Northern chill, beginning at his toes and slowly creeping up the length of his spine, cognizance of the situation presented to him had finally dawned on Jon, and his eyes had widened, then darkened with shock and his ever present fury.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Jon snarled. "I've received no ravens announcing her arrival!"

Although Jon's words had been growled out in anger, his alarm was poorly concealed. Queen Sansa Stark, first of her name, had been a lady since the tender age of three. She knew her courtesies, and was perhaps better equipped than any to ascend to a throne. If bastards such as Jon and the current Lord of the Stormlands understood the necessity of forewarning, Jon's cousin certainly did. So why had she not sent a raven? 

"You did not know?" Tyrion had pressed, and found himself on the receiving end of one of Jon's seething glares. 

Of course Jon hadn't known. The whole of the South would have known in the queen of the North had come to King's Landing. She had returned only once, since fleeing as a suspected kingslayer, all those years ago. She had returned to the South as the lady of Winterfell, and she had left the queen in the North, and cousin to the king of the South. Another visit only three years later would have been heralded by much fanfare. Jon didn't even know what would be served for _supper_.

"Prepare some rooms," he had simply barked, reaching for his handkerchief to wipe at his grime-covered face. Neither Jon nor the Red Keep had been prepared to receive a fellow royal, but that was the price the queen in the North would have to pay for choosing to arrive, unannounced. 

Pressing his finger against the scar above his eye, Jon was drawn back to the present, back to the godswood. It had barely been an hour since Tyrion and Davos had delivered the news, and less time than that since Jon had seen his cousin. Nothing - not a raven, not a moon's notice, not even a message from Bran - could have prepared Jon for seeing Sansa again. She had looked different, though very little had changed. It had taken Jon a moment of silent staring to place it, but she looked - she looked softer. Jon had grown used to seeing the hardened planes of Sansa's face, the angry slant of her mouth, the sharp pieces of ice that formed her eyes. But peace had fallen across Westeros, and the queen in the North no longer found it necessary to don her grays and leathers. Peace had fallen, and Sansa could be soft and gentle again.

Jon had gritted his teeth then, familiar fury swelling between his ribs. Why should Sansa be allowed her peace? Why, when Jon - who was so bloody _tired_  of fighting - could not even _breathe_  without feeling the violence of his lungs expanding against his ribcage, could Sansa emerge from the unforgiving Northern winter, with pale skin and rosy cheeks, her eyes glittering blue as if she had indeed turned life into a song of her own? In that moment, of wildness, envy, fury, a host of emotions he did not _dare_  put a name to - fire and blood, your name is Aemon and your life will always be consumed by fire and blood, Targaryen - Jon had hated her.

Now, in front of the oak heart tree, Jon felt nothing but shame. Sansa had taken after her lord father in many ways, and she had learned to carve out a face like Eddard Stark's, cold and stony. But Jon had been born with his uncle's face. His own inscrutable expression was not affected, the way Sansa slipped her face on like a mask. Jon had practice reading her face, he knew what to look for in her eyes, and he had seen the hurt behind them. He hadn't particularly cared in the moment. He was uncertain if he cared now.

Sansa had drawn herself up to her full height, and it quickly became clear that she _had_  sent a raven. In response to the invitation, asking her to come to court. The shame felt bitter in Jon's mouth. He should have known, the moment Tyrion and Davos announced her approach, that something was amiss. Jon did not know everything that had happened to Sansa in King's Landing, but he knew enough. Enough to know that there was precious little that would draw the Northern queen away from her lands, and into the prison of her youth. The last time she had come, it had been to save Jon. He should have known that only something of equal or greater importance would bring her here now. 

The sound of footsteps alerted Jon to a new presence in the godswood. His left hand clenched at his side, his right flexed, as if preparing to reach for his sword. Instead, he turned around, his face dark and unforgiving, to glare at the two men who emerged from the trees.

"Why did you do it?" Jon's voice was low and hard. 

Someone had sent Sansa a letter, using the royal seal. Only members of the royal family - a family that consisted only of the king - had permission to use that seal, unless a letter was being written on his behalf. There were only two individuals, aside from Jon himself, who could write a letter on behalf of the king. And Jon had certainly not requested Sansa's presence in the Southron court. He would have had her remain in the North for the rest of her days. Jon _never_  wanted to see Sansa become a victim to the cruelties of King's Landing again, and he knew she bore little love for this place. And yet she had come. Because she believed he had asked it of her. Such an action was unforgivable - tantamount to treason. 

And yet, a response came from the most unlikely source.

"I was the one who sent the letter, Your Grace."

Jon turned his eyes, cold, and furious, and surprised, onto his steward. Davos had stepped forward, his hands held aloft, a gesture of peace, but there was no remorse on his face. He wore a sorrowful expression, but his eyes were clear, and lacked contrition.

"Explain."

"You need her, Your Grace." 

Jon's mouth resembled a wolf's, his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth, the snarl growing in the back of his throat. "You went behind my back because you _knew_  I would never agree to this! You brought her _here_  -"

"You will not survive this court another two years." It is Tyrion's voice, cold and condescending as always, that stopped Jon's tongue in his mouth. "Some days I doubt you'll survive even another moon."

His fists clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes dark and violent. Jon had fallen to sleep with similar thoughts about the last lion, and yet his Hand was standing in the godswood, brazenly insisting that Jon's death was nigh. Jon had died before, and sipped from its cup in the following years. Jon was only half alive, the rest of his spirit and soul lost to that endless nothing. Could a being that was half dead already, still be killed?

"You speak with a disturbing amount of certainty, Lord Hand," Jon bit out. The Lannisters were skilled assassins, even Tyrion. His crimes had been laid bare, before his appointment as Hand. Jon would not dare to cry 'kinslayer', when he was guilty of the same crime, only with the justification of birthright supposedly absolving him of such iniquity. But the murder of the handmaiden....Jon had seen the way Sansa's eyes became glassy, the slight tremble of her lower lip, and Jon had _known_. Jon wanted none of Tyrion's _advice_ , and yet - 

"Listen to him, lad!" 

It was Davos who spoke, interceding between the Hand and the King, as he was often called to do. Jon turned his eyes to his steward, the anger and betrayal plain on his face, carved from stone with chisels of wrath and righteousness. But he clenched his mouth shut, and let his eyes flicker back to Tyrion, the most either man could hope for, from their king.

"It is true, you are beloved by the smallfolk. You have done great work, rebuilding this land, and you have proven to be a just and honorable king. No one holds the death of Daenerys Targaryen against you." The flicker of Tyrion's eyes belied his saccharine comment, but Jon held his tongue. Tyrion had long ago learned that flattery was of little consequence to the King of the Six Kingdoms, and would not serve him well. Surely there was a point, buried underneath the Lannister's honeyed words.

"The nobility hate you." The rough brogue of Davos' voice was more startling than the sharpness of Tyrion's, and again, Jon's eyes flicked between the two men, searching for truth and reason. Davos' face, while more open and earnest, was still shuttered from Jon's scrutinizing gaze. Tyrion, as always, maintained a carefully created mask of just enough indifference and interest to be lethal. "Jon, I know you don't care for them, and truth be told, neither do I. But they'll kill you in your sleep if you give them the chance, and you can't deny, you've given them every reason."

The ache behind Jon's eyes grew in intensity, as he ground his teeth audibly. 

"You are a bastard made king. You outwardly despise them, and grant no requests or favors. You are seen as taking pleasure in denying them the luxuries they were once entitled to." The pompous certainty of Tyrion's voice was galling, but Jon forced himself to listen. If his steward, the one man Jon had trusted to remain loyal to him, had thought his actions egregious enough to merit _treason_ , the least he would do was hear the motives. 

"The noble men and women of Westeros are used to a particular way of life. The wars have robbed them of much, and in the aftermath of the Great Burning, an entire class of people was scrambling to return to normalcy. You have dozens of Houses that have been driven to the brink of extinction, if not ruined altogether. Bastards are being raised in every corner of the world, and _children_  are the leaders of Houses. They turned their eyes to their just and honorable king, expecting to be reassured, if not placated, and instead you have turned your nose at them at every opportunity." 

Though there was some truth to Tyrion's accusations, Jon felt resentment coiling tight and heated in his belly. Why should he be expected to cater and bend to the whims and fancies of the lords and ladies who had helped drive the land to ruin? Why should Jon allow the nobility to grow fat and rich once again, amassing their wealth on the backs of the smallfolk who had suffered the most, for the hollow, cursed game of kings and queens? Jon was no longer arrogantly dismissive of his own privilege the way he had been as a greenboy, new to the Wall; despite his status as a bastard, he had still been raised in Winterfell, raised alongside the highest noble family in Westeros, save for the King's own. However, he was no longer that boy. He was a man grown, a king. He had as little time for the political maneuverings of the aristocracy now as he had when an army of the dead marched ever closer to the only home he had ever truly known.

"They would gladly see you dead, Your Grace." Jon's eyes snapped back to Tyrion. "And we would once again, have war on our hands."

Jon's profile was cold, his eyes flashing. "Let them try."

Finally, Tyrion lost his tenuous grip on his temper.

"Your uncle was murdered in front of a hundred people, on the steps to the Sept of Baelor!" Tyrion shouted, his own hands made into furious fists at his hands. "Your grandfather and uncle were murdered by your other grandfather, your mother, whether willing or not, died through your father's actions. You may be Targaryen, but you are also a Stark! The only Stark to survive this cursed city is the Queen you have refused to treat with for the past three years. Had it been Arya who remained in King's Landing, she would have been dead within a fortnight. Her Grace not only survived her tormentors, she outlived most of them. She _learned_ , and yet, despite _knowing_  this, you refuse to do the same."

A roar of anger was trapped inside Jon's chest, and he glared at Tyrion with undisguised hatred. How _dare_  a Lannister toss the deaths of the Starks in Jon's face? How dare Tyrion think to mention Eddard Stark, when his bastard nephew had been the one to have him executed, in front of the tearful screams of the man's daughter? How dare he tout Sansa's torture at the hands of his family, as something that had been necessary to shape her into the queen she now was? There was no end to the depths of Jon's gratitude that his cousin had survived, but she never should have had to. She should have been spared. 

"You're a good king, lad." Davos' voice was softer, following Tyrion's outburst, but Jon was no more receptive to the kind words than he had been to Tyrion's bellowed imputations. "The king that Westeros needs. But you have no heirs. Your cousins, they're of the North. Arya and Bran are Sansa's heirs, they could never inherit the Six Kingdoms. You have no wife, no children. You have named no nobleman your heir." Davos held his hand up, anticipating Jon's protest before it was fully formed on his tongue. "Aye, I know you don't trust many, and you're right not to. But," the former smuggler glanced nervously at the dwarf, "Lord Tyrion is right as well. You _need_  to learn how to handle your lords and ladies, before they have you killed. The kingdoms won't survive another war. Not in the midst of winter, not after the Burning."

Jon's jaw worked furiously, his gaze wrenched away from his counsellors, and focused on the oak tree, so unlike the great weirwood of Winterfell. Underneath the pervasive anger that had swallowed his flesh since the moment the Red Woman touched it, rested the cold steel of a ruthless pragmatism nearly forgotten in the overwhelming precept of _fire and blood_  that Jon had unwillingly embodied since his resurrection. Once, he had been ruled by that sharp practicality, and not this oppressive wrath. hHe could see the truth in their words, the both of them. It did nothing to diminish his fury, but Jon was capable of recognizing this necessity. The nobility needed to be placated, lest the Six Kingdoms face yet another uprising, more bloody and violent than the others. 

After a long pause, Jon spoke, his body still facing the tree, eyes refusing to meet the watchful gazes of his steward and his Hand. 

"I will meet with Her Grace."

Without another word, Jon spun on his heel, his sword hand flexing at his side, and he made his way out of the godswood, his impassive expression carved from stone, feet certain in their path. He could set aside his anger, long enough to converse with his cousin. He could forget the rage that had clenched an ugly hand around what bloodied remains of a heart were left in his chest, long enough to sit down and learn from the Queen in the North. He could ignore the tangled web of emotions - anger, fear, sorrow, pain, pride, desire - long enough to look Sansa in the eyes, and plead her assistance. He could ignore everything she was, everything she had been, everything she could be to him.

For now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts? i greatly appreciate kudos/comments, and if you feel like screaming with me about the queen in the north, check me out on [tumblr](http://joygreys.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Next chapter: Jon and Sansa actually Talk, and more is revealed about the circumstances of Jon's rise to power.


	3. distant rhythm of the drum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A queen disappears from her chambers, and a king remembers the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! another chapter done! i actually wound up cutting this chapter in half, because it was growing close to 20k. how do you guys feel about chapter length? is this a good length, or should i let the chapters grow longer? anyways, i hope you enjoy! we get some more peeks at jon and sansa and their current mindset, as well as another flashback to what lead them here!

Tension was coiled tight in Sansa's belly as she made her way through the restored Red Keep, though she fought to keep her limbs loose and delicate, rather than drawn tight to her sides in some meager form of protection. It mattered not that Brienne, Podrick, and three other Winterfell guards shadowed Sansa's every step. The lack of dragons and lions did nothing to soothe her nerves. Even the differences, noticeable though they were, did nothing to hide where Sansa truly was. If she allowed her eyes to sweep across the castle floor, she would be able to count of at least three places where her own blood had dripped onto the cold stones after Joffrey demanded his Kingsguard members strike her. Sansa had developed a great distaste for signets as a result. 

Nightmares seemed to lurk like wolves around every corner of the Red Keep, snarling, vicious things, but Sansa walked with her head held high, her visage giving no impression that she was haunted in these halls. The walls had eyes and ears here in the South, and Sansa had little doubt that many had taken it upon themselves to arrange to watch the Northern Queen's every move, whether it was to benefit themselves, or simply to take stock of her mettle. Sansa could not afford to be seen as weak, no matter what beastly horrors this place represented. Besides, she was no stranger to walking through a castle of torments. Winterfell had nightmares of its own, and some days Sansa thought she would go mad amongst the silence of the ghosts that still lingered.

To the people of the South, Sansa Stark was largely untested. She had the name, but little else, it seemed, to Southron lords and ladies. Sansa had expected as much upon ascending to the newly created Northern throne, but the confirmation had stung all the same. To those in the South still alive to remember her, Sansa had been the pitiable hostage of the Lannisters, the plaything of Joffrey who was brought out for the amusement of him and his court. Little was known of her after her escape. Though her marriage to Tyrion had been annulled, and her innocence in Joffrey's death had been made official early on in Jon's reign, the Lannister propaganda machine had thoroughly damaged whatever reputation Sansa had, south of the Neck. It was nothing that could not be undone, but it had already affected the North.

It was imperative that Sansa use her time in the South to strike new trade deals with the other kingdoms, and create alliances for the North. Though she had no desire to usurp or undermine Jon, and she knew, despite everything else between them, he would never do anything to harm the Starks or the North, they were but a single generation. If such distance persisted between the cousins, what guarantee did they have that their future generations would not wage war on one another? Many wars had been fought in Westeros in a short span of time, and there were hurts and unforgivable grievances on all sides. Sansa had hoped Jon's raven was the first step to repairing what had broken between the two of them, but her arrival had dashed such hopes. It made the importance of Sansa cultivating new friendships more important than ever.

To do that, she had to shove the disappointment aside, a task easier said than done. There had been no denying the excitement Sansa had felt, intermingled with a host of other emotions, upon approaching the Red Keep. Despite the abyss that seemed to have erupted between Sansa and her cousin, she had missed him fiercely, an ache that had been near impossible to explain to all but Brienne, who had often shared a small smile with her queen, allowing an unspoken understanding to pass between the two. 

Jon hadn't expected her at all. That had become abundantly clear to Sansa as he welcomed her. The knowledge had offered her relief and dismay, both of which made her knees tremble. She could only hope that the circumstances of Jon's ignorance was the reason for the utter lack of propriety displayed upon receiving a fellow royal. Regardless of where they currently stood with one another, Sansa _would_  discuss protocol with Jon before she returned to Winterfell. Her own pride had suffered little for the poor greeting - though she would be lying if she did not admit to a sting, deep within her heart, buried underneath the weight of a crown, in a place where she was simply _Sansa_  - but other nobles would not be so forgiving, especially if the reputation Jon had fashioned for himself among the highborn had any truth to it. And, Sansa noted with a sinking feeling in her stomach, it most likely did. 

The disappointment was more personal, intertwined with that piercing hurt she did not wish to acknowledge. However, she had little choice in the matter. Sansa knew the importance of cataloguing each and every one of her emotions, desires, and fears. Refusing to think on them would do her no good. Sansa needed every scrap of information at her disposal, and that included her own heart and mind. She could hardly be expected to deduce the whims and fears of others, if she could not even face her own in the harsh light of day.

So she had been disappointed. Though the relationship she had built with Jon after flinging herself into his arms at Castle Black had shattered like the dragonglass he brought with him, upon his return to Winterfell beside a silver-haired Targaryen queen, Sansa had always maintained faith that the two of them would scoop up the pieces, and fashion something new and stronger. Trust had been broken between them, it was true, and there would certainly be many arguments to be shouted across desks, but Sansa had _faith_. She had faith in _Jon_ , she had faith in _them_. 

And then Daenerys Targaryen had burnt King's Landing, and Sansa had marched South to save her king. 

The injuries and shattered trust between them became something unforgivable, and Sansa's faith grew dimmer and dimmer with every passing year.

Perhaps it had been her folly all along, tending to that small ember of hope that burned painfully between the curved bones of her ribs. Few others had kept such faith, and more still beseeched Sansa to abandon it altogether, as Jon had seemingly abandoned her. But Sansa had refused, and she had allowed the ember to be fanned into a brighter flame, upon the raven she received from King's Landing. It had not been from Jon's hand, but she had been certain it was by his command. 

Certain until the point when obvious shock had spread across Jon's body as Sansa made mention of the letter that had been the impetus for her journey South. 

Jon had recovered swiftly, and gave no other outward indication that he had not been the one to extend the invitation through Davos, but it had been enough for Sansa to realize the situation she had unwittingly found herself in. And, she reflected miserably, pulling up her skirts as she began to ascend the stone steps, following the path of the nervous looking servant who had been instructed to show her to her rooms - _another_  breach of protocol Sansa would need to discuss - if she had had noticed Jon's surprise, she was certain others did as well. Sansa was confident in her assertion that no one had as much of a vested interest in Jon's well-being as Sansa, but as the king - unwed and in the prime of his youth, no less - there were plenty who found it absolutely necessary to follow his every move with careful calculation. The arrival of the Northern monarch - not to mention the king's own cousin - being a fault of miscommunication at best, a result of ignorance at worst, would no doubt have a lasting effect that both Sansa and Jon would feel. 

Sansa bit back a groan, and allowed her fingers to drift up and rub at her temples, feeling a headache already building behind her eyes. Sansa certainly hadn't _forgotten_  the expert political maneuvering that was required in the South, but she had also grown...comfortable in her home. Oh there were certainly politics at play in the North, and complex ones at that. Reworking the entire Northern tax system had been a beast and a half, to say nothing of preparing for winter when it was already upon them, and trying to rebuild the war torn north. And that was to say nothing of the many problems presented by the Free Folk and their refusal to kneel - something Sansa wholeheartedly respected, as the Queen Who Refused to Kneel herself, as she was called in some of the Northern songs, but could not be seen to condone outright. 

However, in the North there was an unwavering sense of pride and loyalty. The North was an ancient land, beholden to the traditions that extended back to the arrival of the First Men. The name Stark was as powerful as the land itself, and one even the Free Folk respected, thanks in no small part to the actions of Jon Snow. The Starks had _earned_  the loyalty of the Northern people, and the North had granted it unerringly in the wake of the War of the Dawn. Sansa did not fear that rebellion might arise at any moment to topple her rule. Even if it _should_ , Sansa had done much to stabilize the North. Despite her lack of marriage, she had two heirs. Arya, for all of her reluctance to be a lady - and Sansa had more than enough to say on _that_  matter, though Arya had announced herself fully chastised, and actually appeared regretful of all things - would be an excellent ruler. Though she would not be stagnant if she were to decide, Arya's time at sea had tempered some of the hollowness inside, the gaping cavity created by the loss of their family, and the absence of revenge. She had always been far better with figures than Sansa, and even Septa Mordane had admitted at times, that Arya would likely run a household as well as Catelyn Stark had done for Winterfell, with far more spirit than their lady mother ever had. Sansa remembered how her mouth would curve into a smile whenever the Septa made that comment around the lord of Winterfell, who would match Sansa's smile with a secretive one of his own. Septa Mordane had not known Catelyn in her earliest days at Winterfell, after all. 

Of course, it should be Bran who would inherit before Arya. As the only remaining trueborn son of Ned Stark, it should have been he who wore the crown. Sansa had offered many times before, but her brother had refused outright, both in private, and in public before all of the lords. Sansa had been surprised at the amount of lords and ladies who had been willing to declare her their queen before Bran's refusal - nearly half of them. The other half had tried to persuade Bran to allow Sansa to rule as his regent. Sansa had thought it a prudent suggestion, giving deference to Bran's status as the rightful Stark heir, while allowing Sansa to manage the North, as she had been doing since Jon had departed for Dragonstone. However, Bran had been insistent that he was the Three Eyed Raven, and would not rule, even if he was slowly unlocking more and more of the person he had been, before allowing the memory of the world to consume him. Still, he had agreed to be named as one of Sansa's heirs, only if there was no other choice. With knowledge of every story throughout history, Bran knew far better than most the dangers of an uncertain and unstable succession. 

It was a danger that now threatened Jon, here in the South. Unlike Sansa, he had no heirs to speak of, unless he had trusted in some loyal vassal, a fact which Sansa sincerely doubted. Jon had never been the most trusting man to begin with, and his circle of trust had shrunk considerably since he had been betrayed and murdered at the hands of the Night's Watch - men he had trusted and lead to the best of his ability. And since the Great Burning, Sansa knew Jon no longer trusted her. She doubted he trusted anyone anymore, save for himself, and perhaps Arya.

Sansa knew she had been responsible for breaking the faith that had once existed between the two of them. Sansa had sworn an oath in front of the heart tree, in front of the Old gods, never to reveal the secret of Jon's parentage. She had broken that oath. She had confided in Tyrion, and lead to Jon being placed in chains during the Great Burning. Her actions had placed Jon in a position in which he had been forced to kill his lover and kin. Sansa had betrayed her promise to Jon. 

Petyr liked to fancy himself as the one who taught Sansa to see through the eyes of others. He hadn't, though Sansa would admit to learning more about what drove a man from his tutelage. Sansa had always displayed a particular knack for empathy, the ability to understand another person's wants and fears. She could see her actions through Jon's eyes, and she did not begrudge him the anger he surely felt. Jon Snow, no matter who his sire had been, was the son of Eddard Stark, and did not take vows lightly. That Sansa had displayed such shamelessness and an utter lack of remorse had likely only incensed Jon further. 

She had made an oath in front of the heart tree, and spoken the words he demanded, but they were simply words, and words were wind. Even oaths. Men had sworn oaths to Sansa before. They had broken them. All but one. All but Jon, who swore to protect her, and _did_ , but with his actions, not his words. Sansa had sworn an oath in front of the Old gods, but she had stood in front of the gods before, in front of _that_  heart tree before, and she had sworn herself to Ramsay Bolton. The gods had been silent then, and silent for every night thereafter. The gods too, were merely words, and words were wind. Sansa Stark no longer believed in oaths or gods or men. She trusted no one.

Sansa did not even trust herself. 

Jon's own lack of trust, however, was a source of instability for the remaining kingdoms. With no heir, he was in a vulnerable position from every possible angle. Jon's lack of love for the courtiers was no secret, even in the North, which Sansa could have guessed at easily enough. But he could not afford to be so callous, not with the realm barely recovering from another harsh Targaryen monarch.

Sansa winced, and dismissed Beth Cassel's worried glance with a quick wave of her hands. It had been an unkind thought - cruel, even. Yet it was not untrue. There were similarities Sansa saw between Jon and his aunt. Both had been well-loved by the smallfolk. Sansa had heard the many stories that traveled from Essos with the Dragon Queen, and though many had been disturbing, there had also been tales of the great deeds she had done, the people she had freed. Sansa took all tales with a grain of salt, but she _did_  believe Daenerys Targaryen could have been loved by the smallfolk. 

Jon certainly was. He had, of course, been the one to execute the queen responsible for the Great Burning, but his care had not ended there. News of King Jon - for he refused to be called King Aegon, even if he had been crowned as such - working among the people to rebuild King's Landing had traveled far and wide. Whispers had erupted across the kingdoms of a honorable king, risen among the ashes. Sansa was certain Jon would have hated such stories if he ever heard of them, but they had made her heart swell with pride, and tears gather in her eyes, in the privacy of her chambers, though she had not allowed them to fall. She had not cried over a man since she laid Theon Greyjoy to rest. She did not intend to spill more tears, even for Jon. 

Unfortunately, while the smallfolk certainly loved Jon, the nobles did not. Just as the news of the smallfolk's adoration of Jon had been unsurprising, neither did the nobility's hatred of him prove to be news to Sansa. Her cousin had always aligned himself with those on the margins of society, and while he quickly endeared himself to them, it was those in the very center whom he unnerved, and at times, outright offended. As a sullen bastard boy at Winterfell, Jon had often made many a lord or lady shift uncomfortably, seemingly mocking them with his gaze alone. Sansa herself, had felt it directed towards her, though when she was the subject, Jon always seemed teasing, rather than mocking, his dislike for her ilk tempered by familial loyalty. Sansa doubted much of that remained any longer, and not simply because their bond as Starks was not as close a connection as they had been raised to believe.

But even the stern-faced immovable lords and ladies were nothing like the vipers that resided in the Southron court. The people of the North were hard, certainly, and there were those who were deceitful and cunning. Sansa was not so naive as to think the North a safe haven from political games and sabotage. The North had been home to the Boltons, after all, just as the South was home to those such as the Tullys. However, there was an established and expected way of life for a courtier here in the South. Though Winterfell often played host to nobles, none had ever been invited to live in the seat of the North - a tradition that would not be changed under Queen Sansa's rule. In the South, courtiers flocked to King's Landing, engaged in the game from the moment they stepped foot upon the King's Road, often prepared to do anything and everything for a bid of power. It was a pit of treachery and falsities and doublespeak, and it was little wonder that Jon held such undisguised loathing for the place. It was a loathing Sansa shared.

She had learned to play the game though. She had been a child when she arrived at King's Landing, with her head full of songs, until she had been forced to watch her father's head taken at the whim of her golden prince. Sansa had been left alone at the mercy of the lions, and told she was the worst liar of them all. She had adapted, and rapidly. Sansa had made mistakes, _stupid_  mistakes. She was not ignorant to the fact that her survival in King's Landing, as much as it had been a feat of her own triumph, had been at least in part due to the fact that a man who had once fought for her mother, had looked at her child's body and _wanted_  her. Bile mixed with gratitude in Sansa's throat, the way it often did when she was forced to think of what Petyr had been to her at that time, and what she could not help but feel she owed him. 

Jon was considerably better off than Sansa had been. He was not a child, for one, and he had far more power than she ever could have hoped to accumulate under the Lannister rule. He was a man, which certainly helped matters, and he had friends here at court. Even if he was not beloved among the nobles, he had Davos, and some members on his council that he appeared to trust. And the dislike for Jon was not unilateral among the nobles. The Lord of Storm's End, a bastard himself, had grown close to Jon in the time leading up to the War of the Dawn and its aftermath. There were more lords and ladies given land and titles and claims by Jon, in the absence of many Houses and people. There were at least a dozen houses under the rule of children and their regents, and plenty who owed Jon their gratitude, as well as their fealty, but their grasp was as tentative as Jon's.

It was the established nobles Sansa worried after far more than any young lord or lady elevated at Jon's command. Those who had long enough memories to reach back before the wars, to the court of Robert Baratheon, and perhaps even further. The court had not been safe in some time, what with Lannister influence, and the madness of King Aerys even before that. But court had once been a thriving place, and the perfect opportunity to gain power. Many had likely expected, with the coronation of what was said to be a kind and honorable man - one unwed and in need of a wife and heirs - that the court would return to its former height of glory. Such fancies had _certainly_  been ridiculous to anyone who truly knew Jon Snow, but it was an easy assumption to make. 

And yet, several years after the Great Burning, with much of King's Landing restored - even if there was plenty more to finish - the king seemed as reluctant as ever to speak with the lords and ladies who had pledged their fealty to him. 

Sansa sighed to herself. Jon hardly had a Littlefinger here in court, which was a blessing but...the one person who could possibly be construed on his side who had the intimate knowledge of courtly life required for someone as inexperienced with it as Jon, just so happened to be Tyrion Lannister - the only other person Jon trusted as little as he trusted Sansa. In fact, given the rumors that had drifted North, thanks to Sansa's own ears placed strategically in the South, Sansa suspected he might actually trust Tyrion _less_.

The thought was...troubling. While it was certainly smart, and Sansa would have advised against trusting Tyrion if she had been asked, the fact remained that he was Jon's Hand. Even if it had been a punishment - for whom, Sansa could not be certain, as she had strongly advised against it, to no avail - Tyrion was beholden to the Crown, and honor bound to give the king wise council. Sansa did in fact trust that Tyrion would do that, no matter his own feelings on Jon as a monarch. If nothing else, Tyrion liked power. Though he was certainly resentful to be relegated to the position of Hand - one that was divisive in the perception of the people, some seeing it as an honorable and powerful position, while others viewed it as a position of great work and very little recognition - the appointment granted him a great deal of it. If his king ever bothered to heed his advice. Sansa suspected such occasions were rare, and when they did occur, were more likely a result of Jon arriving to the same conclusion, rather than actually allowing himself to be guided by Tyrion.

She didn't blame Jon for his lack of trust. She herself had trusted almost no one in King's Landing, and she had paid for it when she did. However, Sansa had also adapted. She had not worn her hostility on her sleeve, even when stripped bare and beaten for all the court to see. She had not bared her teeth as well as her skin, to let the lions see that it was a wolf in their midst, and not a little bird. Sansa had kept herself hidden behind courtesies, and she had learned how to lie, and she had learned how to manipulate.

The same lies would not work for Jon. He could certainly not pretend to be a naive little girl trapped in a place he hated, but it was necessary for him to adapt. Sansa simply couldn't help but fear that Jon would never quite be able to master accepting advice or lessons from someone he hated. He was steadfast and stalwart, her cousin, and though Sansa loved him for it, she would not deny the way it made her heart leap into her throat with fear. She could not protect them, her Stark wolves. It was all she wanted, her family safe and happy, but she could not protect them from themselves. 

The arrival at an oak door drew Sansa from her thoughts, and she nodded at the nervous servant who had lead her party, allowing Brienne to enter the room first, ensuring it was secure. Wylla quickly followed, before turning back to Sansa with raised eyebrows.

"It seems that _someone_  knew you were coming," She remarked, and Sansa let out a hiss, the lady confirming what she had dreaded. It had not just been obvious to Sansa that her presence had caught Jon completely off guard. The rumors had likely already spread far and wide, but something would have to be done to fix the disastrous reunion at the Red Keep. Perception was everything, and not only was this the first meeting of cousins since their respective coronations, it also marked the return of a queen who had known nothing but suffering at the hands of the South. A queen who many had claimed would never venture outside of the North again. And to an onlooker, it would seem as if Sansa had been spurned. As the ruler of the North, Sansa could not allow such a stain, and as a Stark, she could not allow her cousin to be regarded as the monarch who had spurned a queen. If they were not careful, whispers of a war between the North and South could be in the wind by nightfall. 

Determination settling under her skin like iron, Sansa stepped into the chambers with her head aloft, eyes carefully scanning the room. She had been immersed in her thoughts as she walked through the Red Keep, and had not allowed herself to sink too deeply into the familiarity of the place, and so she had not paid attention to where the servant had lead them. Sansa was relieved to realize that she did not recognize these chambers - she had never stayed here before. 

They were rather small for a queen, which Beth noted with sharp eyes and a disgruntled huff, but Sansa cared little for that. The Red Keep was still being rebuilt, and more and more nobles flocking to court each day. Sansa very much doubted better could have been arranged, even if she had given six moons' notice, and the king had been wholly prepared to receive her. Being placed here would not be a perceived slight, which was a small blessing. 

Brienne seemed content enough with the security of the room, or as content as the knight could be, when she did not have complete control over the arrangements. Sansa suspected the only way her sworn shield would have been truly happy was if she had been given a map of the entire keep, and allowed to select the rooms for her queen herself. But since such a thing was completely out of the question, she seemed satisfied with what had been provided, which meant Sansa felt as secure as she could, given the location. Brienne made her feel safe in a way few had ever managed, and Sansa regularly shared her bed with a direwolf. She reminded herself of this, allowing her nails to bite into the palms of her hands, leaning ever so slightly against the enormous white wolf at her side. Brienne and Ghost would not let King's Landing harm her this time.

_Neither would Jon._

Setting that thought aside, Sansa continued to take in her surroundings, relieved to see that she had been given chambers with a solar attached. Sansa suspected Davos had been the one to arrange her quarters for her stay. If she had been placed anywhere but the royal apartments it would have been an insult to the North. Sansa knew Jon had none of the courtiers living in Maegor's Holdfast, and had instead put them up in the Maidensvault. Another mark against him, Sansa would venture to guess. However, she could not bring herself to be terribly displeased with that particular rumor, should it prove true. The Lannisters had filled Maegor's Holdfast to the brim with various courtiers, cousins, and all manner of guests. Sansa had found it impossible to escape the stares and whispers.

Watching carefully as several of the servants began placing down the trunks Sansa had brought with her, she waited for them to bow their heads and depart, leaving her in the relative peace of just Brienne, Wylla, Beth, and Ghost. Sansa let out another sigh, and moved toward the large, canopied bed, before flinging herself onto the ridiculous assortment of pillows in a decidedly unladylike fashion. She heard Wylla's soft snickers, and could easily imagine the way Brienne and Beth were fighting back smiles, but Sansa remained splayed across the featherbed with her face buried in gold and black embroidered pillows. She allowed herself a full minute more of pity and exhaustion, before uncovering her face, and rising from the bed. 

Her Lord Commander and ladies knew better than to comment on Sansa's brief display, and she felt a rush of gratitude for them. Sansa had despaired most wretchedly, upon returning to Winterfell, consumed by self-pity, longing for the family that had scattered to the wind, and more determined to reach Bran from within the grasp of the Three Eyed Raven. Sansa had been struck upon her return to Winterfell, at just how lonely her childhood home had become to her. The men and women Sansa had grown up with were mostly dead or departed. The family that had not perished had instead splintered, leaving Sansa and Bran as the only Starks in Winterfell. Her years had been consumed with taking back Winterfell, and defending it from the Long Night. Sansa hadn't given much thought to making friends, and had found herself devastatingly alone in the cold halls of her home. Thankfully, she had come to surround herself with advisors and handmaidens she truly trusted.

It was why she felt a twinge of guilt as she looked upon them kindly. "Go and settle into your own quarters, I insist." Sansa's voice was kind, and did not hint at her ulterior motives. "I wish to rest from the long journey and the...disappointment." Sansa willingly lowered herself, allowing the sincerity of her dismay to peek through. She saw Wylla's eyes flash with anger, though Brienne still seemed to regard her with something akin to suspicion. "King Jon does not allow courtiers into the royal apartments, or so I am told. I have Ghost with me. I promise, I will be safe." She chanced a smile at the three ladies. "I expect there's a servant stationed outside my door, wringing his hands, and waiting to show you to your rooms." 

Wylla accepted the dismissal for what it was, giving Sansa a proper curtsey, and all but swinging out the door, a playful smirk on her lips. Beth glanced at Sansa from narrowed eyes, but pursed her lips, and followed the older woman, leaving Sansa alone with Brienne, who stood, unmoving. 

"Brienne," Sansa sighed, and her knight raised an eyebrow. "I must _insist_  that you see to your own quarters. Send Pod up if you're so concerned. But you have had a long ride as well, and I don't doubt you will take it upon yourself to guard me this first night." Sansa knew Brienne would not trust anyone but herself with Sansa's safety, and would refuse rest until she felt more comfortable with the surroundings. Sansa too, felt the buzz of anxiety trembling underneath her skin, certainly caused by the memories of this place.

With a sigh, and a shake of her head that clearly indicated her displeasure, Brienne bowed to Sansa, glancing around the chambers one final time, before taking her leave. Sansa waited to hear the door swing softly shut, before she let out the breath she had been holding, and moved toward the trunks containing her gowns.

Sansa had no intention of staying put in her chambers, but she knew her ladies would not be pleased to find Sansa wandering the Red Keep alone. Not with so many potentially hostile lords and ladies, and a king who had not made the necessary arrangements for a queen of a foreign kingdom to visit. Not to mention a king who seemed to want very little to do with the queen, even if she _was_  his family. Any freedom Sansa had to let her restless body and mind wander aimlessly would certainly be hampered by her ladies and guards, well-meaning though they were. She had Ghost as her companion, and he was as fearsome a guard as the legendary Brienne of Tarth - and well known here in the South too. 

Reaching for the gray damask gown, Sansa made quick work of the blue dress she wore, grateful to shed the fur embroidered gown, no matter how beautiful it was. It was a formal dress, and not appropriate for the errand she planned. It was also _hot_ , with its fur trimming. It had been quite some time since Sansa had been used to the Southron heat which was omnipresent, even at the end of winter. But Sansa had needed to make an impression for her arrival in King's Landing, but she feared the impression she had left behind was not a favorable one, through no fault of her own, and with very little to do with her attire at all. 

Grateful that neither the dress she had worn, nor the one she changed into had a corset, Sansa finished tugging the blue gown over her head, and pulled the gray one over her shoulders. It was simpler than the blue gown, with white and dark blue threads forming intricate, yet subtle designs along the bodice. The neckline was lower cut than Sansa had been used to in some time, though still quite modest by Southron standards. Here in the South, most of Sansa's gowns would be considered positively dowdry, if not for her figure which was impossible to hide, no matter how high the neckline, or how loose fitting the dress. The gray damask was more of a Southron style, while still bearing the mark of the North, with the Stark colors and direwolves embroidered along the hem. Sansa could not allow anyone to forget who she was, and what she represented, but she also could not appear to be too foreign, lest she be categorized with _another_  foreign queen who had been kin to the king. 

Smoothing her hands down the front of the gown, Sansa stepped in front of the looking glass affixed to the wall and sighed, taking note of her disheveled hair. The ride and Sansa's impromptu collapse onto her bed had left it in a bit of disarray. Not wanting to bother with fixing the complicated braids into either a Northern _or_  Southron style, Sansa removed the pins and ran her fingers through the copper tresses, allowing her hair to fall in long waves down her back. She reached for a navy shawl made of the same thread that ran through the bodice of her dress, and pushed open the door to her chambers to find that no one was positioned outside her door. 

"Come, Ghost," Sansa said softly, and at her command, the white direwolf moved beside her, following as the Northern queen began her journey through the Southron keep.

* * *

_ Jon hated the South. It was possibly an unfair assessment, having only been south of the Neck only twice in his life, but Jon suspected he would hate the South no matter how many times he was condemned to visit. Then again, he knew he would never leave. He would be yet another Stark to be murdered in the South. With the absence of Drogon, the fearsome beast, Jon only prayed his magistrates would grant him the mercy of taking his head, the way the honorable man - the only father Jon had ever known - had died.  _

_ These were the muddled thoughts that filled Jon's head as his prison cell was flooded with harsh light, and several commands were barked out in a language he did not understand, the shackles around his wrists yanked none too gently, wrenching Jon from the ground, so that he stumbled to his feet. He was pushed out of the cell and into the harsh daylight, prodded along every few steps, as he followed the small band of Unsullied that escorted him to wherever his judges awaited his sentencing. Jon wondered who would be responsible for passing the sentence, swinging the sword. It was not the way of the South, but was there enough left alive for Jon to be granted a distinct judge and executor? _

The world had burned. Ash was thick on his tongue, heavy in his throat. The world had burned, and who was left alive, but a man who's body had been brought back from the dead, but not his soul?

_ The daylight proved to be simple firelight from the torches, bright to Jon's eyes, dulled from his - hours, days, moons, years? - in the darkness of the dungeon. True daylight, Jon realized, as he was pushed outside of the dungeon, nearly sprawling on the sand - was far worse. His head felt as if it was on fire, his skin boiling under the heat of the Southron sun.  _

_How could he be a Targaryen? How could he be a dragon, when the sun itself seemed to burn his blood in his veins? Dragons did not burn, Daenerys had liked to say. Jon felt as though he had been doused with fire long ago, and never learned how to cease burning._

_The Unsullied guard continued to shove Jon toward the intended destination mercilessly, until Jon realized they had finally stopped, and he dared to lift his eyes. He had to squint against the harsh sunlight, and it took several moments for his vision to adjust, long enough to see who had come before him to pass the sentence, to swing the sword._

_ Tyrion Lannister was in chains beside him, Jon noticed it first. He supposed they would face the same sentence, guilty of the same crime. “ _ I, Aegon of the House Targaryen, rightful king of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, sentence you to die.” _  Jon wondered, could Tyrion have done it? Could he have swung the sword? He had certainly attempted to pass the sentence, urging Jon to claim his birthright when he had come to see the dwarf, after being released from the chains himself, witnessing the speech of victory his aunt had delivered from the steps of the Red Keep. Jon had known what he had needed to do the moment the city was ablaze, but Tyrion's words had been wrapped around the promise of a  _ king _. One that Jon had never wished to be. _

_Whatever the crimes, Jon felt certain they would both die this day. He had made his peace with death long ago, when a half life had been shoved back into his dead body, brought back by whatever dark god the Red Woman had worshipped - no god of Jon's, most certainly. Jon wondered if he might see proof of the gods in this death, unlike the expanse of nothingness that had left a gaping hollow in very soul when he had been stitched back to life._

_ Jon's weary gaze scanned the assemblage of lords and ladies that had gathered around to condemn him for the act of killing the woman who had slaughtered a city. Some he had expected. Some he didn't recognize. It was unsurprising. War had waged in Westeros in one form or another, under one ruler to the next, for half a decade. There was little left of the Seven Kingdoms it seemed. It was no longer Jon's concern, for death had surely come, and Jon certainly meant to bend the knee. _

_ And then Jon's eye caught a flash of copper, and his heart froze in his chest. _

_ Grey Worm stepped forward, thinly veiled disgust plain on his face, anger keeping his body unnaturally still, his hands forming a warrior's pose of readiness and alertness at his back. Jon felt his back straighten, his own posture becoming that of a soldier, rather than the broken prisoner. Grey Worm stood, unchained, a free man. Davos had told Jon of the crimes he had seen committed, the slaughter that Northmen and Unsullied alike had taken part in. Jon had  _ seen _  with his own eyes, the murder of unarmed Lannister prisoners on the streets. And yet Grey Worm stood, with his sister, his  _ cousin _  - Sansa - only a few feet away. _

_ Jon's heart, the deadened organ trapped in his chest, was racing faster than it had since he had used a dagger to stop another. Sansa had never meant to return South, he had been certain of it. She had all but vowed. The North was her home. The North was  _ her _. And Arya - Jon had sent her  _ away _. The South was not safe for Starks. The South was not safe for his sister, for his cousin. Grey Worm walked beside Jon and Tyrion, as if he would not have easily slit Sansa's throat, the way Jon had done Daenerys', if he had cause to believe her a threat. Westeros had learned just how threatening a powerful woman could be. _

_ "The prisoners have both been brought to this gathering," Grey Worm's voice was devoid of emotion, but Jon had spent enough time around the Master of War to understand the fury that resided underneath his monotone syllables. "They will be put to death. This is our city now." Jon saw Tyrion flinch from the corner of his eye, but he could not tear his gaze away from the bright blue of Sansa's. She did not look at him, for her gaze rested firmly on Grey Worm, as cold as the Northern ice, as if she had brought it here with her. _

_ "If you look outside the walls of  your city, you'll find thousands of Northmen who will explain to you why harming Jon Snow is not in your interest." _

_ Jon froze, and closed his eyes.  _ No, Sansa.

_ Several men and women shifted, glancing at the Stark sisters nervously.  _

_ Of all the assembled lords and ladies, they were easily the most intimidating figures. Even Yara Greyjoy with her axe clearly in sight, propped up against her chair, did not seem quite so formidable as the wolf women who had refused to yield to lions, nor Faceless Men, nor dragons, nor death itself. Against every odd, the Stark sisters had survived a childhood of nightmares to be fashioned into warriors in their own right. If Westeros had been ravaged by war, so too had Arya and Sansa Stark. Few nobles could claim to have suffered under the weight and brutality of human greed, as those bearing the name Stark. Words were wind, but words from the mouths of the Starks carried the bite of the North. It was clear that everyone gathered knew well enough to listen. _

_ Sansa's eyes surveyed the semi-circle of nobles coolly. They never rested on Jon, though he begged her to look at him, as though he could communicate with thoughts and not words. Should she only look at him then she would know. Would that she glance his way he could warn her, he could tell her not to do this. Her gaze remained steady. She did not look at Jon. _

_ "Some of you may be quick to forgive. The Ironborn are not," Yara Greyjoy sneered. "I swore to follow Daenerys Targaryen." _

_"You swore to follow a tyrant." Sansa’s voice burned the way ice did when it was so cold skin blistered under its touch. Several men shrank back. Yara was no weak-willed Southron man though, and she had known the icy chill of the sea._

_ "She freed us from a tyrant! Cersei is gone because of her and Jon Snow put a knife in her heart. Let the Unsullied give him what he deserves. _

_ "Say another word about killing my brother and I'll cut your throat." Arya’s voice was cold and detached and full of promise that Jon was terrified she would keep.  _

_ Dread that tasted like smoke and ash and dragonfire climbed Jon's throat so that he was nearly gagging on the taste, choking on the realization. Sansa and Arya had come South, for  _ him _. They would wage war. The Stark sisters did not bend. They would not kneel. " _ Be smarter than Father,"  _ Sansa had told him. Sansa was smarter than them all. Her father had knelt to save her life. Sansa would save his without kneeling, but what would be the cost? The North? Her own? _

_ The Starks were prepared to wage war, as if they hadn't just conquered the night itself, as if they hadn't been at war since Eddard Stark had knelt on the steps of the sept. The Ironborn needed little cause for war, and Yara had granted Daenerys her unwavering loyalty. The Iron Islands could pose a genuine threat to the North, to say little of what the South could do, even damaged and ragged though it was. Sansa and Arya would go to war for him, and the fighting would continue, and there would be no end to the violence and the bloodshed. There would be no peaceful resolution that came about of Jon's death. Fury burned deep in Jon's veins, as he realized what must be done, what position he had been forced into. His eyes burned into Sansa's visage, but if she felt the heat of his glare, she gave no sign.  _ Had she planned this? _  Jon wondered.  _ Had this been her intention all along? _  Jon had sworn to protect her. It was a vow he intended to honor with his life, however little that meant. Sansa knew the oath he had given her. _

_ Sansa always seemed smarter than everyone else. _

_ "I did not murder Daenerys Targaryen." _

_ Jon's voice, though cracked and hoarse from disuse, was steady when he spoke. He felt the waves of fury radiating off of Grey Worm, and the eyes of all the lords and ladies on him, but Jon paid them no mind. Sansa's gaze had slowly,  _ finally _  turned to Jon. He let his own anger burn, viciously prayed she felt the fires of his betrayal. He would not forget this. He would not forgive this.  _

_ "You claim you did  _ not _  place a dagger in the queen's heart?" It was the Dornish representative who spoke, his voice dripping with skepticism.  _

_ "I did." _

_ More murmurs erupted among the lords and ladies. "Then you admit to murder and treason of the highest degree?" It was a young lordling who spoke, one Jon did not recognize. A child made lord, in the wake of the wars.  _

_ "It was not treason."  _

_ "King's Landing was burned in  _ wartime _ ," Yara snapped hotly, but Jon did not let her finish, did not dare allow the fierce woman to continue sowing seeds of discord and dissent among the already deeply fractured and divisive group. _

_"It was not treason, and she was not a queen. Not of Westeros."_

_ No one moved. There was no sound in the dragonpit, save for Jon's ragged breathing, each harsh inhale a force of brutality he desperately wished to avoid. _

_"You named her your queen. You yourself bent the knee!" It was Grey Worm's voice that rang out, vicious and damning._

_Jon merely shook his head, keeping his burning gaze on Sansa. "Aye, I knelt. But I did not know who I was when I did. I did not learn until after, that the North was never mine to give away. That Daenerys Targaryen did not have a rightful claim to the Iron Throne."_

_ "So it's true then?" Jon's gaze shifted to a lord he did recognize, the uncle of his cousins, Edmure Tully. "Varys' letters. It's true? You are the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark? His heir?" _

_ The weight of suspense and terror hung heavy in the air. _

_ "Aye. It's true." _

_ The catharsis was one of silence as the headiness of the truth and its implications sunk in, each lord and lady turning over what it meant in their minds. Jon could see some of the younger and more inexperienced nobles shifting their gazes, trying to discern the importance of Jon's words.  _

_ "As the heir of Rhaegar, Jon is the rightful king of Westeros," Sansa said softly. "Even if an argument could be made that Daenerys Targaryen won Westeros through conquest, she forfeited such a claim when she burnt innocent civilians after the bells had rung. After the city had surrendered." An act of war. But how did one commit an act of war in the midst of war itself?  _

_"Your claim to the throne means nothing when you murdered your kin over it," Yara snarled, and Jon's eyes darkened. "Let's pretend to set aside the treason for a moment. Jon Snow or Jon Targaryen, you are still guilty of kinslaying. You will die for such a crime."_

_ Jon's eyes darkened, seeing the tense lines of Sansa's posture. Arya gave nothing away, but he knew she had weapons poised and at the ready. The North would be at war with the Ironborn before nightfall, before catching a breath in between the endless severity of night and dragons and this war of words. _

_ "I executed Daenerys Targaryen, as is my right as the true heir to the Iron Throne." Jon's voice thundered across the dragonpit. "I executed her with the words of the realm, words spoken by every king to rule these kingdoms. I executed her in the name of the realm, for the crimes committed in King's Landing. I sentenced her to die, and I executed her as Aegon Targaryen VII. The man who passes the sentence swings the sword." _

_ The roar of silence was deafening as the lords and ladies absorbed the intimation of Jon's statement. He had claimed his birthright to kill a tyrant, and in doing so, he had claimed his right to the Seven Kingdoms. He could not eschew the latter while avowing the former.  _

_ A queen was dead by a dagger held in Jon's hands. That could not be changed, Yet words were more than simple wind in the South, and had the power to shape and alter reality itself. Jon Snow, a bastard, murdering the great liberator, Daenerys Targaryen was treason of the highest degree. Aegon Targaryen VII, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and rightful heir to the Iron Throne, executing the woman responsible for half a million deaths by dragonfire, was a service to the realm. Words paid no heed to Jon himself, a dead man risen again, undeserving and unwilling.  _

_ "Such an execution is the right of a king," Yohn Royce spoke, his voice measured, his gaze scrutinizing. "Have you come to claim your birthright as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms?"  _

_ Jon met the burning gaze of Sansa with his own, his spine steady in spite of the tremors of fury that rippled through his body. She would go to war to force his hand. She knew he would never let that happen. _

_ "I am." _

_ He would never forgive her this. _

* * *

_"I am glad to be here, Your Grace. I was pleased to receive your invitation South. I too, hope this experience in King's Landing will prove better than my first."_

Jon snapped his eyes opened and groaned. Every time he allowed his eyes to close, even for a moment - a beat, a _breath_  - of peace, he saw her copper hair flashing in the sunlight, her blue eyes sharp and searching, looking for all the world like a true Northern queen. If it wasn’t the memory of her at the dragonpit, condemning him to kingship, it was the far more recent recollection of her arrival in King’s Landing - mere hours ago. Jon had thought he had done an admirable job hiding his shock at her words - clearly intended as a message to him - but the disappointment he had seen flickering in Sansa's gaze had taken away all hope of that. 

His confrontation with Davos and Tyrion in the godswood had done little to assuage him. Although he could admit a begrudging understanding, it did nothing to change the fact that Jon had very likely offended the queen. His cousin. _Sansa_. She had been lured to King's Landing on false pretenses - a fact that had surely not gone unnoticed. Beyond that, Jon had not been fit to receive her, dressed in the clothes from the training yards, appearing very much like the careless king certain nobles liked to claim he was. While it was true that Jon gave little thought to appearance and artifice that the people of King's Landing seemed to sup on, he was _aware_  of the appropriate behavior and attire. He had displayed neither of which was fitting for receiving another royal of equal standing, and he would have to make amends. 

That was to say nothing of the genuine hurt he had seen in Sansa's eyes, a brief flicker, before she had expertly squashed it down, once more erecting her walls as high and as cold as the Wall that Jon had once called his home. He had fought back his own hurt at the sight of Sansa's cool aloofness directed at him once more, before remembering _he_  had chosen this path for the two of them. Jon was the one who had put the cold distance between them. As painful as it was though, it was also necessary. Jon wondered if he could ever learn to trust his cousin again.

However, Jon's personal relations to Sansa mattered very little, at least in this regard. The King of the South had been seen publicly snubbing the Queen in the North. Although that hadn't been quite what had happened, and certainly not Jon's intention, no matter what hurts lay between the two, he knew it was what would be perceived. Lord Amory had already stopped Jon on his way from the godswood, concerned by the rumors that were already spreading like wildfire. The South could _not_  be seen as being at odds with the North. The two kingdoms had largely left each other alone, but as the Six Kingdoms recuperated more with each passing day, there had been whispers of an eventual unification that would bring the North back into the fold. 

The North of course, consisted of proud people, and none was so beloved as the Queen Who Would Not Kneel. Jon had little doubt that Sansa need only send a raven, and the South would be decimated once again, trampled under the furious boots of thousands of Northmen, come to defend their queen. Sansa inspired love and loyalty in her people, it was something Jon had seen for himself, during his own days as King in the North. It was a trait that concerned him, as much as it was one he admired. 

More than the political ramifications of such a greeting, however, Jon was irritated with himself because it had not been his intention to offend. He was now forced into the position of the defensive, as he had been the one to commit such a wrong. Jon hardly expected Sansa to make such a grievous faux pas, but he would have liked to meet her as an equal. Certainly not an equal in the cursed game the court so cherished, but without adding to the mountain of debt and carefully nursed grudges that existed between the two of them. Now Jon would approach her in a position of deference. There was little Jon could do, except extend his sincerest apology, and figure out the best way to make a public gesture of good will and penance. He would not have Sansa's name and reputation besmirched in court. No matter the emotions she incited in him, Jon would remain loyal to the Starks until the day his body was finally laid to rest with his heart, and he would not have Sansa's stay in King's Landing approach anything near to her first experience. 

Already running through a list of ways he might be able to make amends, Jon entered Maegor's Holdfast, ascending the stairs as he mulled over the ideas forming in his mind. Davos had informed Jon that he had arranged for Sansa to stay in the chambers that had once belonged to Queen Aelinor, a decision which had been no small measure of relief. Jon had learned just how closely every single decision was scrutinized by the court, and something as simple as a guest's bedchambers could set off a flurry of whispers that could do lasting damage. Little was known of Aelinor Penrose, other than her husband had preferred the company of books to his wife's body, and they had died without issue. 

There was also a certain beauty to the chamber, Jon remembered. It was hardly the Rhaenys suite, or the Alysanne chambers close to Jon's own, but he remembered seeing several paintings, one depicting Queen Naerys and her Dragonknight. Jon hoped it might bring Sansa some small comfort. It could not have been easy for her to return to King's Landing, and he doubted he had done much to comfort her with his unexpected welcome. Sighing at himself, Jon shook his head, and knocked lightly on the door, waiting for one of Sansa's ladies to receive him. 

He waited for a moment, but frowned when he heard no movement from inside Sansa's chambers. Reaching out his hand, Jon rapped his knuckles against the wood again, this time harder and sharper, leaving no mistake that someone was at the door. Again, he heard no movement.

"Your Grace, I have come to request a brief audience with you, and the opportunity to properly welcome you to King's Landing," Jon called out, tugging ever so slightly at the doublet that stopped at his hips. "Your Grace?" Deciding that he had already broken protocol enough, and there were no nosy courtiers allowed in the royal apartments, Jon grasped the bronze handle of the door and pushed it open, his brow furrowed and grey eyes scanning the empty quarters, only to widen with fear. 

Sansa wasn't there.

It was all he could do not to immediately call for the City Watch. The queen was a guest in King's Landing, Jon reminded himself. Even if Davos had given her an apartment that held no terrible memories for her - something Jon trusted of his steward - the place itself had proven to be nothing but a nightmare for Sansa. She might have wanted to leave the confines of a room, and walk the length of the Red Keep. The theory, however, did little to calm Jon's racing heart, and so he set off at a quicker pace, the familiar sound of the kingsguard falling into step behind him, making Jon scowl.

Fortune, as it turned out, seemed to be favoring Jon for an unlikely moment, for as he rounded the bend to the stairs, he found himself face to face with Ser Brienne of Tarth, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, and the woman most likely to know where Sansa was.

"Ser Brienne," Jon greeted with a touch of relief. "It is a pleasure to see you once again." 

Brienne bowed slightly to Jon, her eyes clear and scrutinizing, the way Jon remembered. 

"Your Grace. You appear to be on something of a mission."

Jon's eyebrow arched, and he nodded.

"Aye. It was your queen I was searching for. I meant to extend my apologies. Do you know where she might be?"

Brienne's eyes betrayed nothing, but Jon could have sworn he saw the slightest flicker in the bright blue depths, reminiscent of another formidable woman with blue eyes.

"If the queen left her chambers, she did so without my knowledge."

Jon's body tensed of its own accord, his sword hand flexing at his side. "And without a guard?" His tone was sharp, and Brienne straightened to her full height, seeming to brace herself against the perceived insult.

"Her Grace likes to slip past her guards. She can find the presence...overbearing, at times." Jon's eyes drifted to his own guards standing several feet behind him, their faces blank, and white cloaks unmistakeable. As if Jon had not bested most of them in the training yards himself. "She would not be unaccompanied though. Queen Sansa knows better. I believe it is your direwolf, Your Grace, who is often the queen's companion."

Relief cooled the ever present anger that had begun to swell within Jon. He had been gladdened to see the wolf beside Sansa when she arrived. The wolf had greeted him happily, though Jon had urged Ghost to stay with the queen. He suspected his direwolf would have done so even without Jon's command. If Ghost was with Sansa, she would be well protected, even without a guard. However, the idea of Sansa wandering through the Red Keep still made Jon uneasy, and he shifted his weight from his left foot to his right.

"Do you believe Her Grace went to visit the godswood? Or the sept, perhaps?" Sansa still kept to both gods, that much Jon knew. He had just been in the godswood himself, but it was possible Sansa had slipped past him, in search of a moment's peace. She had often found it beside a heart tree, she once confided in him.

Brienne's mouth pulled into a tight line, and Jon saw her sigh carefully.

"I very much doubt it, Your Grace. Whenever Queen Sansa has visited a city or town, she often seeks out the children's home before anything else. If Queen Sansa is not in her rooms, I suspect she is visiting with the orphans of King's Landing." 

Jon cursed silently, his fists clenching at his sides. Flea Bottom. Sansa had not only ventured outside of the security of the Red Keep, but she had wandered all the way down to Flea Bottom with only Ghost to guard her. Closing his eyes, Jon forced himself to breathe through his nose, expelling the anger as best he could.

"Thank you, Ser Brienne. You've been most helpful," Jon spoke through gritted teeth, before turning to the kingsguard shadowing him. "Send word to the City Watch. I'll be visiting the children's home in Flea Bottom."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it seems that there's something of a miscommunication happening between jon and sansa.....they are on two different pages, and it might be some time before they manage to get on the same one! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, as always!


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